#looking out th window at night watching cars pass by; headlights lined up into the distance. nods.

[trainingdummyrabbit]

goodmorninnnggg. Till It Happens To You - CorinneBaileyRae

[caiminnent]

reasons I have kissed you today [domestic kylux fluff, rated T]

Prompt(s): Day 1 - Comforts by @kyluxpositivity​, based on a @foxes-in-love​ comic.

Summary: It dawns on Kylo, how empty his life had felt before Hux. It still feels like a dream, sometimes: something that may slip through his fingers like sand if he opens his eyes. Ben had never imagined that he could be loved with the focused, intense way Hux loves Kylo—never thought he could love someone so fiercely, either. How in the world did he get so lucky?

Or: a marriage in ten kisses.

Fandom: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Married Couple, Armitage Hux Wears Glasses, Established Relationship, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Coffee as a Metaphor for Love

Notes: Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash.

3.2K || Also on AO3

i. we woke up

Kylo wakes up in the middle of the night.

Taking a deep breath, he blinks up at the ceiling with aching eyes, distantly wondering what disturbed him. The room is bathed in the dim, half-light of early morning, the streetlights drawing orange shapes on the far wall.

Too kriffing early to be up on a Sunday.

Hux is still sound asleep next to him. A car passes, the headlights illuminating the room enough for Kylo to see the lines of his face for a moment: smooth and relaxed, the way they rarely are while his high-strung husband is awake.

The urge to reach out and run his touch over the long lines of Hux’s hands, to feel the skin-warmed metal on his finger grips Kylo. It’s not insecurity; Hux headed off half-joking remarks about Hux eventually taking the ring off so swiftly that Kylo doesn’t carry more than the passing, baseless worry brought by the occasional bad brain day. He just enjoys the physical reminder that Hux is his.

Hux’s alarm goes off, startling Kylo. Unlike the groggy, half-hearted way Kylo wakes, Hux commits to it: When he opens his eyes and reaches to turn his alarm off, he’s ready to take on the day ahead.

Scratching his stubble, Hux looks over to Kylo, finding him already watching. “Good morning, you creep.”

Kylo smiles, rising on an elbow. Brushing a strand away from Hux’s eyes, “Mornin’,” he mumbles, leaning over to kiss Hux.

“Ugh, morning breath,” Hux grumbles, but he’s smiling, too.

-----------------------------

ii. you made me caf

The next time Kylo wakes, the room is finally bright with the morning light. Hux’s table clock reads half past nine.

He rolls onto his back, running a hand down his face. His body feels anchored to the bed, the caked warmth of the room weighing his eyelids down. Part of him wants to press his face on the cold side of the pillow and ignore the world for a few more hours. He might have, maybe, if the other side of the bed weren’t despicably empty.

The bitter scent of caf filtering in through the ajar door helps with the decision, too.

Stepping into yesterday’s shorts, Kylo shuffles to the kitchen, where Hux is making himself his nth cup of tarine tea as the caf machine drips Kylo’s java into the pot. Hux’s favorite coaster sits next to his book on the kitchen island, the bookmark sticking out somewhere near the end.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” Hux says without turning, mixing low-fat milk into his tea with the preciseness of a surgeon.

Not ready to be awake yet, Kylo grunts in response, grabbing the A/C remote off the caf table before dropping himself on the couch. He sets the temperature as low as Hux can stand—which isn’t much, but it’s infinitely better than getting cooked in the summer heat that’s seeping in through their south-facing windows.

Hux comes over with a big mug and a coaster, placing the latter on the caf table. Keeping the caf hostage, he extends his cheek, awaiting his payment of a kiss first. Kylo is more than happy to give it.

Satisfied, Hux surrenders the mug and returns to his book. The A/C kicks in in full force, blasting cool air right onto Kylo’s heated skin.

It’s perfect.

-----------------------------

iii. I passed you by on my way to the kitchen

They have different ideas of how a Sunday works.

For Kylo, it’s time to finally leave the workweek behind and enjoy himself. He likes to curl on the couch with Hux and watch a movie, go out for a late lunch, take evening walks without his phone. Hux, on the other hand, sees it as an opportunity to prepare for the next week; he takes up laundry and deep-cleaning, while Kylo is tasked with cooking meals to re-heat for dinner over the next week and ironing.

Kylo manages to postpone the inevitable until the third time Hux reminds him of it, the thin line of Hux’s mouth promising hell if Kylo doesn’t get on with it already. Kylo dutifully closes the lid of his laptop and heads to the kitchen, pausing to drop a peck on Hux’s lips in apology.

“Don’t think you’re forgiven,” Hux says after him, his tone already softer.

-----------------------------  

iv. you passed by while going to the shower

Once done with the cleaning, “I’m going to take a shower,” Hux announces, going through the folded pile of newly pressed clothes. Putting the flat iron aside, Kylo helps him find a shirt and the pair of khaki shorts that make Hux’s thighs look sinful, wrapping an arm around his waist to show how much he appreciates the choice already.

“Kylo, I’m reeking,” Hux complains, batting a hand at him. Kylo puts a wet kiss on that spot under his ear before letting him go.

Hux shakes his head in disapproval, but his look is fond.

-----------------------------  

v. you were gaming and didn’t hear me sneak up on you

Long after the shower turned off, Hux still hasn’t come back to the living room.

Kylo finds him at the study, hunched over his cherished desktop with Kylo’s sound-cancelling headphones on. Perfect. Seizing the opportunity, Kylo tiptoes into the room until he’s right behind Hux, grabbing him by the shoulders.

Hux jumps with a loud curse, the mouse tumbling off the desk as he rips the headphones off. The look he pins Kylo with over his work glasses is almost funnier than the reaction, though Kylo keeps his laughter in check. Hux is nothing if not vindictive.

“Sorry,” Kylo says with an apologetic half-grin, kissing the top of Hux’s head to appease him. On the screen, that city building game of Hux’s is on, snowy plains and mountains interspersed with black and gray buildings stretching on and on. “Still working on Starkiller Base?”

Hux grunts in affirmative, bending to pick up the mouse. A few clicks take care of whatever Kylo messed up; Hux switches to the live view afterwards, watching the flow of movement in different parts of the map.

A month ago, the base was a big, almost brutalist complex seated in the middle of vast whiteness, most of the structures placed underneath a dome until Hux built proper snow protection—or so Hux explained while giving Kylo the grand tour. It looks more like a military base now: Pairs of white-clad soldiers stomp through long, well-lit hallways in rhythm while spaceships with hexagonal wings circle around, black shuttles whizzing around underneath them.

Hux switches back to build mode, scrolling to the edge of the base, where a large watercourse—that might be a stream or river; Kylo can’t make sense of the scaling in this game—circles a white building with red, blinking lights at the top.

“What’s that?” Kylo asks, pointing at the building. Admittedly, it looks about the same as most others to him, but it seems like something Hux might be excited to talk about.

Hux pushes the glasses higher, giving him a sidelong glance. “A fusion power plant,” he says gruffly, deleting some of the pipeline between the plant and the body of water. “I thought one of these would be enough to power the entire base, but the upgraded stations are draining all the electricity. I’m trying to see how many more plants I can build without having a drought problem.”

Kylo hums, leaning in to get a closer look. Hux breaks into an explanation on how the plant works, outlining the current infrastructure at large and his next plans for the base, scrolling around the map where needed. Kylo watches the way Hux’s hands dance on the keyboard, the glint in his eyes and falls in love all over again.

-----------------------------  

vi. I was bored

Money never sleeps; neither does First Order Inc., apparently.

“I’m so sorry,” Hux says for the hundredth time as Kylo brings him a new cup of caf—which by itself speaks for the direness of whatever task Snoke just dropped into his lap. “I didn’t know it would take this long.”

Kylo doesn’t say it’s okay, because it’s not. They could’ve finished season 3 in the time Hux sunk into work, and it doesn’t look like he will be done anytime soon. It isn’t Hux’s fault though, so he says, “I know what Snoke’s like, too,” instead. Transferring to Resistance HQ was his second-best decision in life.

While Hux works, Kylo busies himself with his phone, scrolling through the holonet and catching up on the latest news that he doesn’t give a damn about. Daytime TV is as shitty as it’s always been, and he’s not stupid enough to Netflix-cheat in front of Hux, so he runs out of things to do within the next hour.

Hux’s eyes are fixated on his screen, his mechanical keyboard clack-clack-clacking rapidly. “Are you almost finished?” Kylo asks, dropping his phone on the caf table. Hux jerks his head up, blinking at him owlishly. “You’ve been at it for a while. Will you be done soon?”

Hux’s lips twist in remorse. “I’m really sorry.”

Kylo sighs, pushing off the couch. Circling around the kitchen island, he towers over Hux, crossing his arms. A plethora of spreadsheets decorate Hux’s screen, all split in multiple ways.

“Why don’t you take a break,” he says, less a suggestion than a veiled threat. “You’ve been sitting there for hours; you need to get your blood back in your head.”

“I don’t want to lose my momentum,” Hux mutters, adding several closed parentheses at the end of a formula. Another moment and he’s practically forgotten that Kylo is still standing there.

Kylo scoffs, giving him a hard stare. Hux doesn’t even look his way, buried in his color-coded columns and rows.

Fine.

Kylo puts a hand on Hux’s arm, stepping smoothly behind him. Sliding both hands to Hux’s shoulders, he presses his thumbs into the tight muscle below Hux’s neck, dragging a half-pain, half-pleasure grunt out of him.

Brushing a light kiss over the short hair on Hux’s nape, “Take a break,” Kylo says, lowering his tone to the timbre that Hux enjoys. Hux doesn’t shiver as Kylo hoped, but at least the clattering of the keyboard stopped. “Snoke has you six days of the week. Spend one with me.”

Hux snorts. “You mean on you. Are you that bored?”

“Out of my damn mind,” Kylo admits easily. “Seriously, Snoke won’t even remember that report until mid-week. The great FO won’t fall because you didn’t send one file early. You’ve done enough, you can finish it tomorrow.”

Hux drums his fingers on the island, silent as he thinks it over. Kylo encourages him by massaging the base of his neck, the area between his shoulder blades, skimming around his ribs to graze his sweet spots.

“Give me one hour,” Hux says, sounding for all the world like it’s taking him great pains to capitulate. Kylo hides his grin in the crook of Hux’s neck. “Either it’ll get done by then or I’ll be done with it.”

-----------------------------  

vii. I was tired

The evening falls, the oppressive heat giving way to a gentle warmth in the air. With 47 minutes to go on Hux’s countdown, Kylo decides to stretch his legs for a bit.

A walk around the block turns into a casual jog, then a run until the discomfort of having gone rusty gives way to a quiet head and the feeling of being on top of the world. He almost doesn’t want to stop and get back home, but home is where Hux is and he will always go back to Hux.

He walks the way back, taking the scenic route to cool off a little. When he walks inside, he finds Hux lying on the couch with a new book, still wearing the glasses.

The couch is big enough for two; they tested it. Multiple times. Still, Kylo drapes himself all over Hux instead, throwing an arm and leg over him.

“Kylo,” Hux grumbles, rescuing his book from under Kylo. He hits Kylo on the hip with it. “I’ve just cleaned the sofa.”

“Too tired to shower,” Kylo lies into Hux’s shoulder, turning his face to kiss Hux’s collarbone. For all that Hux seems made up of sharp edges, he’s unexpectedly comfortable to rest on. Kylo doesn’t feel like letting go of him just yet.

Putting his book in the empty space by them, Hux reaches down to grope Kylo’s ass, dipping a hand between his legs and back up. Tease. Kylo raises his hips with an impatient hum. Between the bliss still running in his system and the smoky, woodsy scent of Hux’s cologne in his nose, it won’t take much to get him going.

A hard pinch to his thigh makes Kylo yelp. “Hux!” he hisses, rising on his elbows to glare at him.

Hux grins up at him smugly. “You’re clearly not too tired,” he says, batting Kylo on the hip again. “Now go and wash up. If you’re fast enough, we may even continue this.”

-----------------------------  

viii. I was happy

Too lazy to set the table, they eat on trays in front of the TV.

Hux is an objectively horrible person to watch things with. He has the unique ability to find something to hate in everything he lays eyes on; his scathing, running commentary often drowns out whatever is playing. Not even the things he loves are safe from his sharp tongue.

Still, Kylo loves these calm moments with Hux more than anything: sitting nearly pressed up even though there’s space, bantering through the slower scenes, rewinding the important ones until they’ve pointed out every little detail to each other. Now that Kylo’s experienced this, he can never go back to being a passive audience.

The show ends—exactly where it shouldn’t. They speculate on the loose ends through the dishwashing routine, picking holes in each other’s theories until it becomes a debate, each defending their point with zeal and dish soap bubbles. By the time they agree to disagree, they both got their fair share of suds all over them, their sides aching from laughter.

It dawns on Kylo, how empty his life had felt before Hux. It still feels like a dream, sometimes: something that may slip through his fingers like sand if he opens his eyes. Ben had never imagined that he could be loved with the focused, intense way Hux loves Kylo—never thought he could love someone so fiercely, either. How in the world did he get so lucky?

His heart too big for his chest, he takes Hux’s ring hand in his, kissing the inside of his wrist. Hux’s soft smile lights up Kylo’s insides.

-----------------------------  

ix. you were there

Leia calls to ask what they’re going to bring to the Life Day dinner.

Kylo pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mom, it’s August,” he points out, suppressing his scoff. “We barely know what we’re gonna eat next week.”

“There were too many potato dishes last year,” Leia says evenly, unmoved. “I need to make sure this year’s spread will be more balanced.”

The front door clicks open, closing just as quietly. Throwing the phone on the bed by his ear, Kylo listens to the routine sounds of Hux putting away his shoes and bags instead. Call him clingy; knowing that Hux is home with him, even if they aren’t in the same room, comforts Kylo.

A moment later, Hux steps in, two mini-cups of ice cream in hand. The best husband in the universe, hands down. Hux extends a cup and a spoon to him, nodding at the phone in question.

Kill me, Kylo mouths, sitting upright to take the ice cream. Leia is still chattering on the other end of the line, something about acorn squash and broccoli. Kylo puts her on speaker to make Hux share his suffering.

“I told Poe to bring the pecan pie,” Leia continues, clearly not minding Kylo’s lack of reply. Hux sits down next to him, digging into his own cup. “Rey wanted to make it again, but—between us, of course—she can never get the crust right, so she and Phasma will bring garlic bread instead. Armitage’s focaccia is straight out of heaven, but I don’t want to load up on bread. You’ll need to choose something else, I’m afraid.”

Licking his spoon clean, “Hello, Leia,” Hux says. “We were planning to bring, um, blue milk biscuits and green bean casserole. Is that all right?”

“Of course, Armitage,” Leia responds, the warmth of her tone increasing a few degrees. If she’s surprised to hear Hux’s voice, she doesn’t let on. “That would be great.”

“Wonderful,” Hux says, feigning cheer. “Now, you must have many people to call yet; we oughtn’t keep you any longer. I’m sure Kylo will catch up with you at a better time.”

Kylo will do nothing of the sort.

Once they say their farewells and hang up, Kylo releases a long breath. Conversations with his mother always take something out of him, no matter the subject. Hells if he knows how he got through them before Hux came along.

He reaches for Hux’s forearm, squeezing it in a silent thanks. It’s the easiest thing in the world to drag his hand up Hux’s arm, shoulder, neck and to cup his jaw, pulling him down for a kiss.

Hux tastes of strawberries and chocolate. Kylo can’t get enough of it.

-----------------------------  

x. no reason at all

Like every good thing in life, Sunday ends.

Kylo putters around the apartment until he has no chance but to slink into the bedroom. An unnecessary and unneeded part of his routine, the if I sleep, it’ll be a workday morning dread that starts creeping up as soon as it gets dark. It’s not even that he hates his job; he just loathes the end of his free time.

Hux is already in bed, probably finishing up his weekly review and preview like the freak he is. He puts the phone aside when Kylo enters, waiting for Kylo with his hands folded on his stomach.

For a moment, all Kylo can do is stop and stare, his breath catching in his lungs. With his lightly tousled hair bright against the bedding and his dainty ankles casually crossed, Hux is a sight to see. No one has a right to look that good in sleepwear, much less the feared CTO of First Order.

Kylo crosses the room in three steps, climbing onto Hux’s side of the bed and crawling over him. Supporting himself on one elbow, he leans down and kisses Hux deeply; Hux opens up for him without skipping a beat, pulling Kylo even closer.

Once they part, “What was that for?” Hux asks, running the backs of two fingers down Kylo’s face with an amused slant to his lips.

Kylo shrugs. “No reason at all.”

[greatfallsrp]

NAME: Solomon Rios AGE & DATE OF BIRTH: 43 years old / October 25th  GENDER & PRONOUNS: Cis Man / He/Him HOMETOWN: Great Falls, MT TIME IN GREAT FALLS: 14 years RESIDENCE: East End OCCUPATION: Owner of Fellows Garage

BACKSTORY —

you’re born to a family of guatemalan immigrants out west, somewhere in the expanse between the city and real corn country. you’re born with your elbows already flying, mouth primed between a spit and a hiss, never quite blinking enough. never quite loved enough. your parents were never together, but by the time you’ve started school they’re really not together, your mother disappearing one night after a fight that left the cops at your door, neighbors peeking through the blinds to find the source of the yelling. for the rest of your life, the sound of cats howling will bring you back to those days, gritted teeth and squeezed-tight eyes, the ground gone to shaking underfoot as angry feet pass in the hall, doors quaking like animals in fear. 

so: your mom leaves and it’s you and your dad for years, two guys and your younger sister making it together, no help for homework in the evenings, but there’s usually something in the fridge. there’s usually heat in the house. you learn to make do, it’s fine, it’s whatever. you’re twelve when your dad stops coming home. after a week, you stop going to school– why bother, with no one to tell you off for it? it’s another three days before the administration calls child protective services. how did they miss this? you hear the social worker ask, down the hall from your shared bedroom. you turn up the volume on your gameboy. hey, kid, has anyone come to talk to you yet about what happened with– they say, and now they’re in your room, looking at you and your sister with that mixture of pity and wariness you’ll come to despise, come to expect, and you turn the volume on your gameboy up as far as it will go. 

your dad gets thirty years to life. you learn the term inchoated crime. you learn about premeditation and intent, parole and plea bargain. the weather turns, and they find your mom, hunkered down and happy in the south. you’re sent to georgia. you get your own bedroom with a window, a yard with trees outside. half-siblings you never knew existed. 

unfortunately, the most intelligent son of a violent felon is still the son of a violent felon. you have a few weeks in georgia before someone finds out about your father’s charge. what friends you’ve managed to make– those willing to overlook your brashness, your sharp edges, every uncomfortable piece of you that doesn’t quite line up right with sweet suburban life and its always-watching eyes– disappear overnight. words are floated, like freak. like pariah. and, worst of all: dangerous. 

though she urges you to be better, mother says you’re just like your father. you prove her right. over the course of your adolescence, you find your home amid the wrong crowds because for once, you would not be the odd man out. trouble always seemed to find you so why not join up before it had the chance to snatch you back down from your potential? you’re a full-blown delinquent by the time you’ve reached your senior year in high school, breaking into cars and joyriding until daybreak. and you’ll find your new home in the driver’s seat because you’re a devil behind the wheel and the only person your ragtag group of ‘friends’ trusts as their driver.

they believed in you so much they trusted you not to rat when you were finally caught because you liked to drive too fast and you didn’t see the headlights coming until it was too late. had only the police known it wasn’t you behind the wheel but your childhood best friend. the same person you’d spent your teenage years laughing off-skinned knees with looked to you to take the blame. and you did, because you may be many things, but you’d look out for those you loved even if it cost you everything. so, the two of you switch seats and your now-former friends let you take the blame, and despite the hurt that ached in your soul, you never implicated them. 

you’re faced with a twenty-five year sentence with a chance of parole after 10 years. you make the most of your time and before you know you’re sat back before the jury and granted your parole on account of good behavior. you only inform your sister that you’re out and returning to your hometown. you quietly move into an apartment downtown, and pick up night shifts where you can get them and eventually get back on your feet. if anyone notices and asks why you’re back in town, you dodge the question; it’s easier than you might have guessed, considering how few people remember you. but all the while, you’re dreading the day someone finds out why you’re back. dreading the day someone looks at you and says, well, who didn’t see that one coming? the apple never falls far from the tree, does it?

Portrayed by OSCAR ISAAC, written by KAY.

[jordanstrophe]

This One is Mine, Part 3

Previous                  Masterlist               Next

CW: Pet whump, reference to past abuse, panicking over a drive through order last second, because lets be honest, who hasn’t done that. It’s scary.

Charles didn’t want to pull Michael away from the tree, but he was so ready to go back home after today. Miles was waiting by the open door for him, as he tapped his shoulder. 

“Come on, we have to go now. We have a whole garden at home you can walk through.” He smiled  “B-but, I like it here!” He pouted, holding his arms nervously. “Sweetheart it’s a parking lot.” Charles sighed. “And look, Malcolm’s factory is right there, do you want to just stay in a parking lot with him here?” He asked. “Wait is he watching us from the door?” Miles squinted, shielding his face from the sun.

 Sure enough, there was a faint outline of a heavyset man, holding binoculars standing behind the glass door. He sighed, before turning towards the boy. “Michael, get in the car.” He said, he kept his tone as relaxed, but authoritative. Michael’s shoulders went stiff, hunched up with defensive posture. He stared up at him like a deer in headlights. Charles stood over him without breaking eye contact, and that was enough to get him to slowly and cautiously move past him towards the car. He put a foot on the step, and struggled to hoist himself into the car, too scared to come out of his defensive pose to use the handles. It was a large vehicle, inside was spacious and clean, as if it were brand new. The interior and exterior was as dark as night, with a slight sweet scent inside. 

He nervously glanced back at Charles, before fully climbing in. He wasn’t sure where to sit, should he kneel on the floor? The seats looked so elegant and expensive, a shine that looked so soft, he didn’t dare think about touching it. Charles climbed in behind him, and draped himself on the seat. He let out a deep exhale, as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. 

Michael was scared, he didn’t know where they were going, and just accepted his tiny corner on the floor. He risked a glance up, only to see Charles lock eyes with him. His heart started beating faster, as Charles sat up with posture, and leaned towards him.

“Come on up sweetheart, you’re not in any trouble.” He smiled at him, and held out a hand. Michael held his breath, he wasn’t usually even allowed up on anything, unless Malcolm wanted to hold something in his arms while he worked at his desk, or place a forceful kiss on the cheek, or rough pet to the hair. His hand trembled as he took Charles' patient hand waiting for him. He just how strong he was, as he hoisted some of his weight up and on to the chair next to him. He was right, the seats were satisfyingly soft. 

Miles started the car, and he jolted and yelped.  “Easy, it’s okay.” Charles whispered. The noise was unexpected, but quieted down to a light hum.  

He wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, but didn’t want to frighten him anymore then he already was. Goodness, what had he gotten himself into? He didn’t know how to help him, and he was not prepared to be taking a young man home with him that day. But he could tell, he was a sweet kid, and didn’t deserve being Malcolm’s slave. The whole business was messed up, and all the people locked away there were just people in the wrong place at the wrong time, and saw something they shouldn’t have. 

Michael held his hands uncomfortably as he stared at his knees. “I’m going to buckle you in, okay?” Charles said, as he nodded quickly. He reached over him, and carefully pulled a seatbelt across his chest, and clipped him in. He hadn’t moved a muscle, and Charles noticed tears beginning to form again. 

“Poor thing... You must be exhausted.” Charles muttered to himself. The car began to move, as they drove away from Malcolm’s factory. 

Charles tried his best to leave him be, as he calmed down. He risked a glance over to Michael, who surprisingly had calmed down, he was now staring out the window with pure wonder and astonishment. They were just driving down a quiet street with the occasional buildings, but a large forest took up most of the view. It was springtime, so there were some trees with beautiful flowers, and lush green leaves curling over the road.

“Have you eaten recently?” He asked, as Michael snapped out of his trance. “Umm.. Not today, sir.” He responded, twisting his fingers together.  “What do you mean not today? It’s late afternoon.” Charles hesitated. A pit deep in his stomach formed, was he hardly fed? Was he never taken care of? 

Michael’s face turned red as he noticed Charles' concerned expression. Was he not supposed to say that? Should he have said he was fine? Oh no... Had he messed up already? 

“I.. I uh, I, w-well.” He stuttered, trying to figure out how to please the man. “Miles! Take us to the nearest drive through.” Charles called. “I’m so sorry sweetheart, I should have asked sooner. We’re a few hours away from being home, and I don’t want to take you inside a restaurant quite yet. So we’re just going to run through a drive though. I wish I could get you something proper.” He tried to give him a reassuring smile. 

W-what, what did he mean by yet? Why would he ever want to take him out to a restaurant? Did he want to show him off? Or did he actually want him around? 

Before he could ponder any further, they were in line for a drive through. 

“Know what you want?” Charles smiled. Michael tried not to show his panic, as he scattered his thoughts trying to remember. “I.. I don’t know!” He cried, sounding like he confessed a horrible crime. “It’s okay! There’s a menu right there on this sign, come here.” He beckoned. He unbuckled his seatbelt, and coaxed him closer. Michael slowly crawled forward, until he was almost on his lap. Charles gently put a hand around his back so he could look out the window better.  “Can you read it okay?” He asked, as he nodded, and then let out a panicked whimper. Miles had pulled up further and was now at the speaker. “It’s okay, take your time.” Charles reminded. A very loud voice screeched through the speaker

 “HI, HOW CAN I HELP YOU TODAY? WOULD YOU LIKE TO TRY OUR NEW CHEESEBURGER SPECIAL?”  

 “I DON’T KNOW!” Michael yelped.

 “It’s okay! What about that right there?’ Charles pointed out the window.

“J-just water is fine, if that’s o-okay!” He squeaked. 

“Miles! Just order a full meal and a... Uh, a Pepsi! You can’t go wrong with a Pepsi.” Charles called. He smiled at Michael, trying to get him to relax. 

“You got it boss.” Miles smiled. “Michael, it’s okay sweetheart, you’re okay.” He chuckled, he leaned him back from the window and gently rubbed his shoulder, as Michael leaned his shoulder against him. “I’m sorry.” He quietly muttered, flustered. “Hey, we’ve all been there at one point.” He smirked.

 “Oh! Let me tell you about this guy!” Miles laughed, pointing back at Charles with his thumb. “Miles, we agreed to not talk about it!” He teased, waving his hands. “This guy right here couldn’t decide what he wanted at a new restaurant that opened up. So do you know what he did? He ordered the entire menu! Every meal! every desert! Every side!” He laughed    

“Miles please! It all looked so good, I couldn’t decide!” Charles begged, half laughing. “Our table was completely full they had to pull another one up! We were getting so many weird stares.” Miles smiled. And for the first time, Michael laughed. A full genuine laugh. Charles smiled as he watched his joy filled expression. The car quieted down, as laughter was replaced by a delicious heavy scent of roasted food as Miles was handed large bags.

One was passed back to him as he carefully took it, and looked over to Charles expectantly. “Whole thing is yours, kid.” He smiled. His expression went from frozen, wide eyes, to a sweet smile. “Th-thank you!” He cried.

He must have said the right thing after all, if he was being rewarded this well. He would keep it up as best he can if it pleased the man this much,” he wondered. He had forgotten that food was something provided, rather than rewarded. 

“Carful, he’ll snatch your fries.” Miles chucked. “It was one time, and it was two fries!” Charles complained. “Two fries I could have eaten!” He complained back. Michael didn’t hear the conversation entirely, he was entranced by all of the food he could imagine inside the bag. It was almost as much as his old master would order to his office. His old master... It had only been an hour since he had been taken away from the man, and it still felt so unreal. What if this was all a dream, and he would wake up being chained under the man’s desk again, tucked away until he would be tortured and manhandled again for entertainment. 

He happily took a sip of the Pepsi, and it overshot what he remembered it had tasted like. Whatever this man wanted him for, he would be it, all he wanted was a glint of kindness. 

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas ninwrites!

For @ninwrites. I was so thrilled to get you for Secret Santa this year as your Malec fics are some of the very first that I ever read when I fell into Shadowhunters way back in 2016. You gave me so many great prompts this year that I really struggled deciding what to write, especially because I know we share so many common interests! Part of me wanted to write a sweeping sci-fi, and another part of me wanted to write a clever procedural, and then I know how much you love superheroes and I also love superheroes, so that could've easily happened ...

But in the end, I decided to strip everything down and write a story about second chances. About seemingly unrequited yearning and human connection and liminal spaces and time unravelling backwards and friends-to-almost lovers-to-strangers until serendipity intervenes. Of course, I went drastically over the word limit but this happens every year so I am no longer surprised.

Merry Christmas! I hope you enjoy this little microcosm of a story!

Tags: malec | rated: t | extended oneshot | human AU, roadtrip, friends-to-lovers-to-strangers-to-lovers, hurt/comfort, surrealism

Read on AO3

*****

saudade in the key of highways

saudade

/saʊˈdɑːdə/

noun

(especially with reference to songs or poetry) a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one cares for and/or loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might never be had again. It is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places, or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, and well-being, which now trigger the senses and make one experience the pain of separation from those joyous sensations. However it acknowledges that to long for the past would detract from the excitement you feel towards the future.

"as we fall / into the common, suspended disbelief of love, you ask / will I still be / here tomorrow, next week, tonight you ask am I really here."

— Olga Broumas, Beginning with O; “Bitterness”

first chord

There is rhythm to this loneliness.1

The endless darkness. Passing headlights; the hum of the engine; the splutter of the heater fighting against the cold that claws and scratches at the windshield. The highway, deserted, is like a strange and eerie dream that travels on and on and never ends.

The rental car: new. Nondescript in its newness. Two hands on the wheel; the faded hum of the radio, a soft accompaniment to the bright beam of the headlights. The car has a cassette player, but no cassettes. It never has any cassettes.

There’s a gas station like a beacon in the distance: a faint glow of sodium yellow that slinks along the horizon but never draws closer, spilling light like fuel out across the open fields.

Alec prefers driving at night. There is never any need to ask for directions because he never passes anyone he could ask for directions; he might be the only car he’s seen in fifty miles.

The radio crackles, then laughs, ‘ we know it’s only November but nothing gets us in the mood for Christmas like -’  

Almost immediately, the signal drops, but the interluding white noise is familiar too. It fills the silence with unimportance, an invisible presence in the passenger seat who doesn’t require conversation or stops to stretch their legs, but is company enough for long drives across the country.

Moments on the road are filled like this: a hundred similar soundtracks for a hundred indistinct highways, their miles wearing down the tread on Alec’s tires and the lines of Alec’s palms, where he grips the steering wheel for hours without a break, in much the same way.

‘So if you’re listening at home, or you’re stuck on a late-night shift, or if you’re driving cross-country and need a pick-me-up, give us a ring and tell us about your favourite ever Christmas song!’ says the radio. ‘But to get us started, we have Marnie from Portland on line one -’

Alec punches the buttons on the radio until he finds a classic rock station. He taps the steering wheel, not to the beat of the song, but to dispel some of the restless energy that tingles in his fingertips.

A sign on the roadside passes him by at high speed; it tells him that he’s a hundred miles from nowhere in particular - but at the last intersection, a similar sign told him he was a hundred-and-one, and now he’s acutely aware of creeping ever closer to his destination.

It’s a destination he’s not sure he wants to reach. A destination he calls home.

There is rhythm to this loneliness . Alec is used to it: the anxious churning of his stomach, the longing for the road to continue beyond its end; the endless, perpetual, and pointless journey of back-and-forths.

One: drive across the width of the country. Indiana, Iowa, Nebraska, Oregon, again and again. A country of ochre-yellow wheat; plains and flatlands; tractors abandoned on the roadside.

Two: report to the local field office, where he’s given a desk too small for his long legs and a computer he doesn’t have a password to. Talk to the county sheriff who snaps at him, ‘ the FBI has no business out here, we can handle this on our own ,’ and then to the man who refuses to open his door wide enough for Alec to get a good look at his face, but whose eyes skip over Alec’s badge and land on the gun on his hip and he thinks the same thing as the sheriff.  

Three: avert his eyes from the body lying on the steel table in the morgue. Pretend that federal intervention was warranted, even though he knows this case is another crime of opportunity and the sheriff was right. The sheriff is always right. ‘ Waste of the FBI’s time, if you ask me. ’

Four: write up another field report that uses all the same words as the one before. Mail it back to Washington. Hopefully it will reach the Assistant Director before he does.

Then, five, begin the drive home.

Rinse. Repeat. Repeat again. Avoid his mother’s calls when he stops for the night at an interstate motel. Make excuses not to see his father when he’s in town. Pretend like he’s not bothered missing out on another promotion, because that would mean moving to a desk job and he likes being out in the field.

He likes driving. This is the mantra he repeats in his head rather than listening to the song on the radio.

There is rhythm to this loneliness .

The car’s engine rumbles on an empty stomach and Alec glances down at the fuel meter, ticking ever closer to the red with each passing and uncountable mile. The gas station in the distance begins to draw closer, finally allowing Alec to catch up, as its cluster of lights shift and reform into the familiar shape of civilisation.

Alec’s turn signal lights up the immediate stretch of highway with flashing orange and a click-click-click sound in the front seat of the car. There’s no-one behind him and no-one ahead of him, but he slows almost to a stop as he eases the car off the road and onto the crunch of hard-packed sand.

A single streetlamp overlooks the highway, casting a pool of unsettled yellow-white light across a phone booth that stands slanted upon the roadside. The gas station lingers a little further back: a small, stout building with a flat roof and a pile of browning-Christmas trees propped up out front. Its two gas pumps advertise diesel at a discounted price, but one of them appears to be out of order.

Beside the gas station, there is a diner; it’s old and clapped-out and almost empty at this time of night, but the bright light beaming through its windows in all directions is painful to look at. The movement of people inside is like a scene playing out in an old movie, stuck on repeat over and over again, the tape unable to skip forward. A repeated moment, and one which Alec has played his part in too many times to count.

Again, his stomach rumbles loudly and he guides the car to a stop before pulling up the handbrake.

He’s alone at the pumps. As he steps out of the car, the silence greets him; the wind falls and the road is swallowed up behind him by an encroaching night, compressing the universe into a single point. A single flicker in time.

Alec retrieves his service weapon from the glove box and clips it onto his belt, pats his chest for his badge tucked into his breast pocket, before drawing his overcoat tight around him. He won’t linger out here, not when it feels like something just out of sight is holding its breath and shifting in and out of bounds; he’s far too afraid of falling back into the passage of time.

Instead, he turns towards the diner; the bell above the door jingles the same as it always does. The TV in the corner is on mute but hums with static. The sound of plates clattering in the kitchen is enough to drown out his shoes on the chequered floor as the waitress looks up at him but doesn’t say hello.

Corner booths are best placed for people-watching and people-hiding and Alec, in his non-descript suit that matches his non-descript car, sinks onto the squeaky red-leather bench without being seen at all. He sighs heavily, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulder that has been bothering him for the last fifty miles.

There are scuffs on the leather and old coffee stains on the table, but he fishes his keys, wallet, and badge out of his pocket and tosses them on top of the menu; he already knows what he’s going to order and there’s no need to look. He’s been craving something greasy since he left Portland this morning, fuelled only by a cup of filter coffee from the machine in the motel lobby.  

Alec grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, a soft groan catching in his throat. In the same moment, the lights overhead seem to flicker, although not for long. Must be a short circuit. The waitress rubbing down the bar doesn’t look up, focused too intently on a coffee-ring stain that isn’t really there.

Diners late at night are strange places. Liminal places. Places of beginnings and endings and threshold moments and tangled journeys, forever caught in that feeling of arriving or departing - but the longer one lingers, the more reality begins to distort.

Alec is not alone in the diner, but the diner is alone in the night that laps and recedes against the windows that look out over the parking lot. Beyond, the gas station hums with a familiar argon sound, bright and electric and not-quite-right in the dark and, behind that, the edge of the highway outlines this displaced moment.

There is nothing else. Alec’s eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark, and for all he knows of the endless fields of wheat that stretch out to the horizon, he cannot see them. The bell above the door chimes again and a young couple slips into the diner, their arms slung low around each other’s waists, giggling as they take up two stools against the bar. Three seats down from them, an old man in a trucker hat and a Chicago Bulls’ jersey is frowning at the TV above his head, trying to lip-read the late-night news anchor because there are no subtitles. In the far corner of the diner, a group of teenagers are tossing fries at each other and one of them makes a milkshake bullseye.

Alec doesn’t know why these people are here, in the middle of a late-night nowhere. He can’t remember the name of the last town he passed through, but it wasn’t more than a handful of houses and a couple of telephone poles kept upright by plywood and nails.

He glances back out at the parking lot, but his rental is the only car there. Strange.  

Strange, but not unexpected. He has learned not to question it, these fragments of unaligned reality, because soon enough he’ll be on his way again, a burger in his belly and bacon grease smeared across the corner of his mouth, and this diner will cease to exist as soon as he’s out of sight and over the ridge of the highway.

Perhaps it will appear again somewhere else. Perhaps he will come across this place again, another mile or two down the road, inhabited by a different group of late-night travellers who will watch him from the corners of their eyes but not say a word, because a lone man in a cheap suit is no more out of place here than they are at two in the morning.

The waitress brings over his burger and a side of fries, setting a mug down in front of him and filling it up with coffee from her pot. Alec nods at her in thanks and she blows a bubble of gum that pops across her mouth and sticks to her teeth, before she retreats behind the register and starts again on that stain.

Alec doesn’t waste any time tucking a napkin into his shirt collar. His tie is cheap and he doesn’t really care if he ruins it; there’s a spare in the bag in the trunk of his car anyway. He takes a large swig of coffee, and then a bite out of his burger, and ketchup and burger juice leak out through his fingers, splattering on the paper wrapper that covers his plate.

It tastes the same as it always does. His stomach growls loudly as he takes another bite and ketchup drips down his thumb.

Movement through the window catches his eye. He looks up and there, on the very edge of the light emanating from the gas station, is a man in the phonebooth next to the road. His back is to Alec but he’s gesturing wildly as he talks into the receiver, and the wind, now returned, billows through his long woollen coat.

A slice of tomato falls out of Alec’s burger with a distinct plop . He’s not sure why the man draws his attention, but Alec has long since learned to trust his gut - it’s an invaluable skill to have in the Bureau , his father would say. It will get you places. It will make people see you as someone they can trust to watch their back. You can’t buy that sort of loyalty, Alec.

The man is tall. He has dark hair and long legs and he grips the edge of the phonebooth with his free hand. He seems to be having a very intense conversation, unlike the hum of background noise that surrounds Alec now.

The man is an anomaly. He is not someone Alec has seen at a diner before - not a truant teenager or a trucker or a pair of lovers on a late-night tryst - and he doesn’t fit the narrative.

Alec wolfs down the rest of his burger, barely pausing for breath, and washes it down with a swig of coffee that burns slightly too hot. He leaves his fries untouched and throws down a twenty dollar bill, stuffing his badge and wallet into his pockets as he makes for the door.

The bell jingles a third time. Alec wipes the back of his hand across his mouth as he steps out into the cold, no doubt smearing ketchup across his chin. He knows his suit is creased and his shirt is rumpled from the drive, his hair upswept by the sudden gust of wind that threatens to knock him off his feet, and he can almost hear Jace laughing in his ear, alright, G-Man?

Alec passes by his car and heads straight for the phonebooth, but the closer he gets, the more he can hear of the man’s one-sided conversation.

“And there’s no way you can get a guy out here tonight?” the man is saying. “I can pay extra for the trouble. Uh-huh. Yes. Yes, it’s pretty urgent.”

Alec draws to a stop when the length of his shadow steps upon the backs of the man’s shoes. He shoves his hands into his pockets so as to appear as unthreatening as possible when the man inevitably turns around, but -

“I don’t see how a service can advertise itself as 24-hour and then not be available in an emergency,” the man says into the phone. He sounds stressed; there’s something about the cadence of his voice that rumbles through Alec’s chest and draws the hair on the back of his neck up on end. Something decades-old familiar. “The least you can do is give me the number for another rental service. A cab company. Something. Anything .”

The man turns away from the phonebooth, catching sight of Alec from the corner of his eye and holding up a finger as if to say hold on a minute , but he stops, whatever words on his tongue extinguished into roadside dust.

Alec’s eyes widen. He knows this man.

Fuck. He more than knows this man. He remembers the first time they met, the firm confidence of his handshake, the bright colours of his shirt, the way Alec thought, at the time, this man is going to change you .

It’s Magnus. Magnus Bane.

Alec never expected to see Magnus again. Not since -

Well, not since then .

“Magnus,” says Alec, like an exhale. And God , his mouth has not formed that name in years; he’s heard it, sometimes, inside his memories, but never beyond. “What are you -”

Magnus stares at him in disbelief, and Alec can hear the man on the other end of the phone line asking hey, are you still there? Hello? where Magnus holds the receiver away from his ear.

Something doesn’t make sense here, but Alec can’t put his finger on it. Not once has he met someone at a diner who he recognises. They’re all meant to be faceless people; people he could meet again a hundred times and still not recognise.

But Alec would recognise Magnus Bane with his eyes closed. It’s been years, and yet the feeling that floods his chest now, is -

An ache.

“Yes, sorry,” Magnus says suddenly, half-turning back to this phone call. His disbelief becomes a scowl. “No, it’s fine. I’ll call them myself. Thank you. Okay. Goodnight.”

The man on the other end of the line hangs up first and the dial tone echoes in the night for a moment, and then another, and then another.

Alec swallows thickly. He draws his hands out of his pockets and folds them behind his back, clenching his fingers in a tight grip where they can’t be seen.

Carefully, Magnus sets the phone down inside the phonebooth, and turns back to Alec, and then - he smiles.

“Alexander Lightwood,” he says, with a shake of his head. His smile grows broad, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. ��God, what are the chances? Any other night, and I’d think this was a figment of my imagination, but with the way today’s been going, I-” He stops himself and takes a half-step forward. “I haven’t seen you since -”

“Since before Quantico,” Alec interrupts. He knows he’s staring but he can’t help it. “Ten years. Yeah.”

Ten years, three months, and twenty one days. Alec has been counting. If he looked down at his watch, he would know the amount of time that has passed to the minute, to the second, in fact, but he’s not about to admit to that.

He never expected to see Magnus again, and yet -

He hoped.  

“Ten years, really?” Magnus remarks, folding his arms across his chest. Alec follows the movement with his eyes. “Yes, I suppose it must be. 1985, wasn’t it? Christ, that makes me feel old.”

He looks Alec up and down, focusing on Alec’s dust-scuffed shoes, and then on the gun that sits snug on his hip. The corner of his mouth lifts, and his smile becomes a little more genuine.

“I see it’s Special Agent Lightwood now, though. Congratulations.”

“Alec’s still fine,” Alec says quickly. “I mean - you can still call me Alec. That’s fine.”

“Alec,” says Magnus, sounding it out. He’s always held Alec’s name with a special sort of care, but now, he says it like he’s saying it for the very first time. “Alexander.”

Alec doesn’t know what to say. He stares at Magnus, at the space between them that is too large for strangers who have just met, and which belongs only to two people who once knew each other well.

Serendipity laughs at Alec now; it sounds like the dull hum of neon light in a desert. It sounds like a hundred unanswered phone calls stretching back years.

“Alec -?”

“Sorry, this is - this is weird, I’m being weird,” Alec blurts. “I didn’t, uh - I really didn’t expect to see you, especially - especially here . I mean-” He squeezes his fingers tightly behind his back to stop himself from talking with his hands. “What, uh, what are you doing out here? I thought you still lived in L.A.?”

Magnus rolls his eyes. “Where to start?” he says softly, “I had some car trouble. The tire blew like a mile back and I swerved off the road and hit the fence. It won’t start now, which is something of a mild nuisance - because apparently we’re so deep in the ass-end of nowhere that I can’t get a mechanic to look at it until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest - but not as much of a nuisance as the meeting I will definitely miss if I’m stranded out here for the next God-forsaken twenty-four hours.”

Alec’s eyes flick to the highway, as if he might be able to see a mile into the distance and find the 1970 Dodge Challenger that Magnus had, far too many years ago and long-since sold for scrap, wrecked upon the roadside. It is, of course, too dark to see much of anything.

“I don’t even know if I’ll be able to call a cab out here,” Magnus continues, his mouth drawn down into a frown. “And I’m far too old to be hitch-hiking. The thrill of climbing into a potential serial killer’s car lost its appeal some decades ago.” With a brush of his fingers, he flicks away hair from his temple and huffs. “I suppose if I started walking now, I might reach Salt Lake by, I don’t know, Friday morning at best.”

Alec’s eyes snap back to Magnus. “You’re heading East?” he asks, far too eagerly. “Are you coming home?”

Something minute pinches in Magnus’ expression at that word. Home . Alec doesn’t miss it.

Magnus shakes his head.

“No,” he says, and he looks away, but there’s nothing there to pretend to be looking at. “No, not quite. If I had the time to drop by and see everyone, I would, but - I’m due in Baltimore in four days for a meeting with our investors.” He smiles wryly to himself. “And I thought it would be, oh, I don’t know, meditative or something equally asinine to make the drive across the country myself, rather than fly. See the sights. Enjoy being off-grid. Which, in hindsight, was very, very stupid.”

“What are you gonna do?”

Magnus shrugs. “Wait, I suppose. There’s not much else I can do. My cell phone is out of battery and I used up the last of my change on the payphone, so it looks like I’m stuck here until tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Alec says awkwardly.

“Yeah,” agrees Magnus.

In the glow of the gas station, reality trembles, hollowing out the shadows on Magnus’ face and flickering across the back of Alec’s knuckles. The motion of coming and going calls Alec back to the road and he glances back at his rental car.

It makes sense to offer Magnus a lift. Alec is heading in that direction, and he has an empty passenger seat and a working heater in the car, and a Bureau credit card in his back pocket.

It makes sense, and yet, he still hesitates.

“Well,” Magnus announces, “I don’t want to keep you. I might as well see what sort of coffee this place has on offer if I’m to be stuck here until tomorrow. I don’t suppose I could interest you in a drink before you go -”

“I’m actually on my way back to D.C.,” Alec says, thumbing over his shoulder at the car. He wets his lower lip with his tongue. “Baltimore’s not that far of a detour, so I, uh. I could give you a lift. If you want.”

“If I want?” Magnus repeats.

Alec swallows and nods. “If you want.”

Magnus’ face softens and he smiles at Alec. “Well, I’m not going to say no, am I? Although I don’t think I’m going to get my deposit back on my car.”

He looks over Alec’s shoulder at the rental. His expression changes, and if Alec were a kind stranger offering a ride to a man in trouble in the middle of the night, perhaps he wouldn’t notice.

But they’re not strangers, and in Magnus’ eyes, there is something Alec can’t quite place. It seems a little wistful. A little sad.

He says, “I would like that very much, Agent Lightwood.”

interlude

It’s 1985 and a man stands on the edge of the sidewalk, watching as a car turns right at the end of the street and disappears. He waits, half-expecting it to come back, circling around the block and pulling up beside him, the window already rolled down, but it doesn’t.

Ten years pass, and it doesn’t, and the man has to live with it.

Empty spaces and hands on the steering wheel and loneliness and want . In the end, that’s what everything boils down to.

I want you to come back. I want to see you again. I wanted you to stay.  

This is the rhythm Alec knows well, played out in the key of highways.

I want something I still don’t have a name for.

second chord

The soundtrack to night-driving is a composition of three things: the car heater as it puffs out warm air; the rental wheezing in the cold, coughing and spluttering with seasonal flu; and the deep stretch of silence.

Usually, Alec welcomes the silence.  

In the passenger seat, Magnus shrugs out of his overcoat and tosses it into the backseat, scrubbing his hands together in front of his mouth as he wills circulation back into his fingers. His shirt, open at the throat, looks thin and flimsy and hardly warm enough for a Midwest winter, but the soft shimmer of the satin is devoid of the harsh shadows that cut across Alec’s chest like the black line of a seatbelt.

Alec forces himself to look away. Keep your eyes on the road, he tells himself. And think of something to say before he thinks you’ve forgotten how to talk entirely. He fiddles with the dial on the radio until he finds the company of static, but it morphs all too quickly into Wham!’s Last Christmas .

Alec grumbles below his breath.

“Still a Grinch, I see,” Magnus says with a smirk. “Where’s your festive cheer?”

Alec returns both his hands to the wheel. “It’s too early for Christmas songs,” he replies, “Thanksgiving was literally three days ago and it’s not even December yet.”

“Are you saying the dulcet tones of George Michael don’t do it for you?”

“I prefer Mariah Carey,” Alec mutters. It makes Magnus laugh.

Alec glances at him from the corner of his eye as Magnus begins tapping his finger to the beat of the song against the door handle.

Alec, too, feels restless, but in a different way. He can’t stop looking, stealing glances at Magnus in the rearview mirror. Perhaps he is a trick of the light. Maybe Alec has been driving too long without a break and now he’s seeing people from his past who shouldn’t be here - but are.

Nothing that happens on the road is real, after all.

He digs his fingernail into the skin of his thumb and begins picking.

He’s lived this moment before; he knows he has. Him and Magnus alone in the front seat of a car and Alec’s tongue heavy in his mouth with all the things he doesn’t know how to say, and all the things he couldn’t say ten years ago, because he wasn’t brave enough then.

Hell, he’s hardly brave enough now. He wonders if Magnus remembers any of it.

The space between them is too large for small talk. Conversations that begin with All I Want For Christmas Is You is overrated though, now that you mention it , or so, how is your mother?, or even do you remember the last day we saw each other? are not enough to bridge the gap carved out by a decade of silence.

The thought stretches Alec so painfully thin. He picks at his thumbnail until it begins to sting, then winces, and draws it to his mouth to soothe it with his tongue.

“So,” Magnus begins, in the same instance. He’s still drumming his fingers to the beat of the radio, but now he’s slightly out of time. “What are you doing all the way out here in Idaho?”

Alec could laugh. “I was in Portland,” he says, “Local P.D. request FBI consultation on a case, so. Yeah. Turned out they didn’t need my help.”

“And they made you drive all the way out there?” Magnus asks, and Alec nods. “Sounds grim.” He stops tapping and runs his index finger across the dark polish on his thumb in thought. “Are you still living at home?”

Alec clenches his hands on the steering wheel. “No, I - I moved,” he says. “Uh, not long after I graduated the Academy, actually, but only to D.C.”

“Ah,” Magnus remarks. He pauses for a moment long enough to become awkward. “Still close enough to see your mom on the weekends, though.”

Alec nods again. Close enough , yes , but he doesn’t say it out loud. Close enough for New England ghosts to haunt every intersection between the city and his parents’ big white house in the country whenever he makes the drive upstate.

In ten years, he’s barely moved fifty miles, and Magnus -

Well. The same cannot be said for Magnus.  

Magnus clears his throat, louder than the hum of the radio. “And your parents?” he asks. “Isabelle?” He scans the horizon, fixed on the markings in the road disappearing beneath the wheels of the car. “How are they? Well, I hope?”

“Same as always,” Alec shrugs. “Overbearing. Dad’s retired now, and Iz moved to New York for work last year. Max is in college, so mom’s started questioning him about his life choices instead of mine.”

“Only took thirty-five years,” Magnus chuckles. “How is your mom? Are you seeing them for the holidays?”

Alec makes a noise that amounts to yeah, something like that .

What he doesn’t say is this: his parents’ marriage has been strained a while now - not as many years as Magnus has been gone, but close enough - and Alec is thirty years too old to be used as ammunition, or worse, a bartering tool in a messy ending. The divorce is only a matter of time now.

If only the road continued on forever, he would not have to go back home for the holidays. He wouldn’t have to sit through another Christmas of icy silences and thinly-veiled insults and his mother trying to butter him up while his father does the same to Isabelle. He wouldn’t have to lie awake in his childhood bedroom and listen to his parents screaming at each other downstairs, all the while wishing for the tap-tap-tap of pebbles thrown against his window, begging for it to be open.

A lot has changed since Magnus last saw him, and Alec didn’t have to move across the country for that.

A lot has changed since Alec stood on the sidewalk and watched Magnus’ car turn the corner at the end of the street for the very last time and not come back.

A semi-truck appears in the distance: first, as a pin-prick of light, and then as two beams of headlights striking the highway and the growl of its engine. The whole car rumbles and Alec grips tight to the steering wheel as the headlights blind him and shapes dance across his eyes. The light bleaches through Magnus’ dark hair and streaks across the skin visible beneath the open collar of his shirt; he holds his hand over his brow and winces.

The truck is thunder: a brief jolt and a flash, and then it’s gone, an aftershock of red light disappearing in the rearview mirror.

For a while, there is only silence. A mile, maybe more. Long past the truck vanishing from view, its light fading into the dark; and it’s the sort of silence that is thick and heavy and awkward.

At the five mile mark, Magnus inhales and turns in his seat to look at Alec.

“So, the FBI,” he says, like he has an obligation to fill the quiet, because letting it stew is somehow worse. “What’s that like? Maryse must be proud.”

“Yeah,” Alec mumbles. “She is.”

“It suits you, you know? Alec Lightwood, Special Agent. Not that I didn’t always know that it would.”

Alec’s mouth twitches, a smile in another lifetime. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Magnus gestures with his hand. There are rings on his fingers that fail to catch the thin and distant light, but his fingers, long and slender, draw focus.

“You’re smart. Logical. Far too severe for your own good, which I imagine serves you well in law enforcement. You’ve always had a keen sense of justice,” he explains. His voice softens. “You know I’ve always thought that about you.”

Alec swallows thickly. “Magnus, you don’t have to -”

“And besides,” Magnus interrupts. “I always knew you’d look good in a suit.”

Alec looks down at himself. “What, even a suit off the rack?”

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything.”

Shakily, Alec laughs under his breath, but he relaxes his hands on the wheel and his knuckles fade from white back to pink. He lets the tense line in his shoulders fall flat.

“I don’t really have anyone to give me advice on what I should be wearing anymore,” he admits. “Or what colour ties match my -”

“Complexion?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Green. It’s dark green,” Magnus says. He smiles to himself, amused by something far back in time. “Do you remember that time when-”

“Yes,” Alec says. Yes, of course I remember. I haven’t forgotten a single thing . “Yeah. Yeah, I do. I still have that tie, the one you picked out for me that Christmas.”

“And the pocket square? They were a matching set -”

“Still the only pocket square I own,” says Alec.  

Magnus chuckles to himself, swiping his thumb across his lower lip in thought. The nostalgia becomes him; his expression softens with the memory of something fond.

The same cannot be said for Alec.

If only pocket squares could be metaphors for other things. For years gone by and silences that were once not this awkward and filled with jilted conversation. Or for a place once frequented but now abandoned; or a past that Alec still calls his now .

Alec is too clumsy at this; he doesn’t know how to step back into a space once occupied with ease, making smalltalk and laughing about Christmases in 1979 as if they were yesterday and they haven’t gone ten years without talking.

He’s not like Magnus; he couldn’t drop everything and leave it all behind. He didn’t get to move on. He had nowhere to go, trapped in this endless back-and-forth of travelling, always returning to the very same place once departed.  

interlude

On a postcard never sent:

What is worse: the separation, or the place where we will meet again, afterwards, that looks and feels like nowhere and is no longer familiar?

I miss you. I am afraid that I will no longer know you when I see you again.

third chord

Two motel room doors. Two identical rooms with identical twin beds and box-set TVs with only five channels and VCRs that don’t really work. Two sets of keys, although the weight of the fob in Alec’s hand feels more like brass than cheap white plastic.

He’s been here before: a shared dorm room, long, long ago. And then, after that, two houses on the same suburban street, sharing the same zip code. And then, finally, two cities, half a world apart.

He and Magnus, half a lifetime spent apart.

Alec did not notice the growing distance until it was too late; in hindsight, he’s not sure if that hurts more or less, to be blindsided by a farawayness he never saw coming. But here, now, there’s five-and-a-half feet of space between his shoulder and Magnus’, standing in front of their respective motel room doors, and happenstance has crossed their lines again.

Alec looks down at the key in his hand and then back up.

Beside him, Magnus casts a long and lonely shadow, thin and black as it stretches back into the dark. The wind ruffles his hair and plunders the pockets of his coat in an act of midnight robbery. The cold has chapped his lips already and he grumbles below his breath as he jams his key into the lock with frost-bitten fingers.

Alec doesn’t mean to be looking, but he is. He’s not sure he’s looked away since Magnus stepped out of that phone booth, as if slipping through a gap in time connecting two unrelated places that somehow ended up overlapped.

Magnus’ door clicks and he pushes it open with a soft, “aha!”, flipping on the light inside. The light tumbles out of the room - cheap, yellow, glaring - and Magnus bends down to grab his bag from his feet.

He pauses, then, in his open doorway.

“Well, then,” he says, looking at Alec with a half smile. “Until tomorrow, I suppose?”

“Yeah,” says Alec. He clenches the key in his palm until the metal digs into his fingers. If Magnus notices, he doesn’t let on. “Listen, Magnus. About what happened, when you left-”

“I’m glad, you know,” Magnus interrupts. “For whatever serendipitous force brought you to that gas station tonight. It’s good to see you. I mean it.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Alec replies. “I didn’t think - I didn’t think that day was going to be goodbye. I didn’t realise. If I’d known, Magnus ...”

“I didn’t either,” replies Magnus. His voice becomes softer. His eyes, too. Apologetic in a way that might take Alec years to unravel - or seconds. “But these things happen. You can’t stay stuck in one place forever, Agent Lightwood.”

Alec nods stiffly but says nothing.

Magnus offers him another smile, leaning heavily on his door frame.

“Alexander?” he asks, as if oblivious.

Alec squeezes the key tighter in his hand. “Yeah?”

A pause, then. Deliberate and weighted, and for a moment, Alec wonders if Magnus is going to answer the question that hasn’t been asked.

(Do you remember the day you left?)

(Let’s not talk about it. Let’s not talk. It’s in the past and we’re both different people now.)

But, instead:

“I’ll see you in the morning, Alec,” he says. “Goodnight. And thank you, again.”

The door closes and the light vanishes, and Alec is left suddenly in the darkness, gazing at the space once occupied. The night around him is cold. A whisper sets heavily upon his tongue but goes unspoken.

Everything always goes unspoken.

interlude

Somewhere between here and 1985, there is a man who doesn’t regret letting his feelings go unsaid. There is a man who moved on with his life; a man who doesn’t live in a moment years ago, with someone else’s hand playing idly in his hair.

There is a man who meets an old friend at a gas station in rural Idaho and it doesn’t hurt in a way he can’t ever explain.

Alec wishes that he knew him.

fourth chord

It’s always night, on the road.

As with endless highways and endless diners, other things begin to repeat themselves too. Alec prefers driving at night. It’s quiet; he can hear himself think; he can run red lights without being pulled over, without anybody in the world seeing him at all. He affords himself this one little thrill, the knowledge that the power to swerve off the road is clenched in his fists.

A fuel tanker passes the car on the opposite side of the highway, the sound of its exhaust like a fog horn parting thick cloud; for a moment, the low hum of the radio is wiped from existence. Alec eases the car over into the middle of the lane with the barest adjustment of the wheel, avoiding the spray of wet grit kicked up by the truck’s wheel arches. As the rumble fades, the melody of late-night jazz begins anew.

He glances sideways at Magnus in the passenger seat. His temple rests against the window and his eyes are closed but he’s not asleep; Alec can tell by the way he’s drawing his thumb in tiny concentric circles against his index finger again, as if deep in thought.

It was always a tell of his.

There is so much of him that hasn’t changed. So much of him that has crossed the threshold from Alec’s memory and fanned out into reality, and Alec is not quite sure where it all meets and blends together. Magnus is half a stranger and half a man ten years younger than he is now, with expensive clothes and the same aftershave and a twinkle in his eye and a strange, unspoken grief on his face whenever he thinks Alec isn’t looking.

But Alec is always looking.

There are memories in the footwell and on the dashboard and in the usually-unoccupied passenger seat of his rental car. Memories that Alec often revisits on other long and inconsequential journeys as a way to pass the time as the odometer climbs.

Magnus is always the main feature of those memories.

It’s 1978 and Alec is a junior in college and Magnus is stumbling into a lecture hall half-an-hour late with a thermos in his hand. He’s wearing the shortest shorts Alec has ever seen, and he’s slumping into the seat next to Alec, whispering in Alec’s ear that he’s so hungover he’s about to revisit Thanksgiving dinner.

Then, it’s 1981 and Magnus is trading secrets with Isabelle at a drive-in movie theater while Alec buys the popcorn; and he’s flattering Maryse’s cooking while leant across the kitchen island, chin in his hand; and he’s slamming the door to his and Alec’s shared dorm, before sneaking back in an hour later, only to find Alec waiting up for him with an apology at the ready.

It’s 1982 and he’s laughing. He’s giving Alec the grand tour of his mother’s home, three streets down from the house where Alec’s parents live. I can’t believe it took moving away to college for us to meet , he says to Alec. We’ve lived this close for so long and we didn’t even know.

It’s 1984 and he’s curling his hand over the back of Alec’s neck, feeling out the knobs in Alec’s spine. His breath is warm against Alec’s jaw as he whispers gentle words into Alec’s ear.

It’s 1985 and he’s packing up his car for the very last time.

Yesterday is tangled in Magnus’ hair. Memories twist time out of alignment and rearrange it into something, and someone, that Alec does not recognise. Ahead of them, in the distance, on the horizon, is a year from a decade ago.  

But here in the car, moonlight makes crosses on Magnus’ body. He is beautiful, still. Older, more refined, more improbable , but the composition of him is something that makes Alec’s heart ache as if he’s eighteen again and they’ve only just met.

The mole above his eyebrow is too familiar.

The lines around his eyes that appeared only after his mother passed. Alec remembers that summer well. He remembers listening to Magnus cry as he stood in Magnus’ kitchen doing the dishes that had been neglected for a week.

The map of his hands. A journey that Alec never took but longed for. Longed for and left to gather dust, like an atlas tucked away on the highest shelf of a bookcase.

In the dark, Magnus cracks open one eye, as if aware of being scrutinised. Alec turns his attention back to the road, but it is too late. He’s been caught.

“What is it?” Magnus asks, and his voice is smooth and rich and fills the car like music, even so shortly after waking. “Are we out of gas already?”

“No,” says Alec. “We’ll be fine for a while.”

“Hungry, then? We could stop for a late dinner. Or early breakfast. I’m not entirely sure what time it is, but I can always eat.”

Alec doesn’t reply, but he presses his mouth into a thin line.

Magnus’ eyes narrow. “What is it?”

“What’s what?”

Magnus scoffs. “You’ve always been many things, Alec, but able to lie to me is not one of them.” He laughs a little. “You think I’ve forgotten the look on your face when you’re trying not to spill your heart?”

No , Alec thinks. No, of course you haven’t. You should’ve, but you haven’t. You should’ve, because then at least one of us could say they moved on.

Alec exhales through his nose and flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. He glances in the rearview mirror, but there’s nothing behind them for miles. Much like pocket squares, perhaps that is a metaphor too.

“You never called,” he says, trying to sound casual.

Immediately, Magnus tenses. He shifts in his seat and sits up a little straighter, angling himself to look at Alec.

“I did,” he says, “At the start. You never answered.”

“You were in L.A. The time zones -”

“Oh, come on,” Magnus laughs. “You could’ve called me, you had my number. I know you did, because I wrote it down for you and left it on your bedside table, the day I moved.”

Alec squeezes his eyes closed; for a brief moment of respite, the road ahead of him vanishes. He thinks about letting go of the wheel at 90 miles per hour - not because he wants to, but because the thought of picking up the phone and hearing Magnus’ voice on the other end was always something that felt like driving his car into a ditch.

It’s the fear of impact. It’s the old hurt of being abandoned. It’s the longing to have run after Magnus’ car and asked to go with him that day in 1985. It’s all such a blur. Alec cannot sift between it all.

Magnus sighs heavily, knocking his head back against the seat. He looks at Alec from the corner of his eye and studies him at length.

“Maybe we should stop,” he says slowly. “The next town, find a diner. Get some food.”

“It’s fine. I’d prefer to keep driving,” Alec says, “If we keep stopping, you won’t make your meeting in time.”

Magnus frowns.

You clearly want to talk about it , Alec imagines him saying. Evidently, there are things that went unsaid.  

Magnus says none of those things. His phone begins to ring and it shatters the strange tension in the front seat, splitting it like a sudden burst of lightning. Magnus twists around and reaches into the backseat, rummaging through his bag. He returns with a cellphone in his hand, pulling out the antenna and flipping it open.

He meets Alec’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he presses it to his ear.

“Magnus, speaking.”

Magnus listens to the voice on the other end of the line and taps his fingers on his knee. He makes a low noise of disapproval to whomever he’s speaking.

“Yes, yes, Raphael, I know,” he says. “My battery died and I didn’t have a chance to charge it - do you know how much payphones cost? Do I look like the sort of person who carries change in his pocket?” A brief pause. “Don’t answer that.��

Alec reaches for the dial on the radio, intending to turn the volume down, but Magnus’ free hand darts out and swats his fingers away.

He mouths the word no and returns to his phone call, but Alec’s hand remains outstretched.

There’s a tingle in his fingertips, a short spark of static that leapt from Magnus to him, and he stares down at his hand as if he’s been burned.

And it makes Alec realise, oh.

So you’re lonely -lonely.

“I’ll be in Baltimore in four days. I ran into an old friend who offered me a lift,” Magnus continues into his phone. He listens to the other speaker for a moment, glancing briefly at Alec’s hand and frowning. “You’re lucky I phoned you at all after all that car trouble. It was a courtesy only.”

The radio briefly breaks into static before the song resumes again. Magnus begins drumming his fingers on his leg, listening intently to his phone call. He uhms and ahs and says something about investors and capital and shareholders and begins talking numbers that are too big for Alec to really understand.

He opens up the glove box and pulls out an old diner napkin that Alec shoved in there three states ago, and scribbles down a note, but he has to tap his pen against his thigh for the ink to flow.

Alec curls his hand into a fist and rests it on his thigh, but the tingle doesn’t go away. He listens to Magnus talk - this whole other person that Alec doesn’t know, but who he was clearly always meant to be - but all he can think about is how long he has gone without being touched.

Do you know? he thinks. Do you know that the last person who touched me was you? Do you realise at all?

interlude

Driving is like running. The rhythm of the road; the splattering of rain against the windshield; the thrum of a heartbeat as the speedometer tips over ninety. Clear head. Relentless motion.

Forward, forward, forward, always and forever. Try to keep up. Don’t stop. Keep going. Don’t look back.

fifth chord

The diner is the first sign of civilisation that Alec has seen in over a hundred miles - and it is the same diner as it always is, an eminent glow on the 3AM horizon that creeps closer and closer like a spaceship hovering over the fields and drawing circles in the wheat and the barley.

It draws circles around Alec too, this singular moment in time. This microcosm that exists in the form of red leather seats and bright, fluorescent light, and the same empty parking lot and abandoned phonebooth on the highway verge. The waitress changes; sometimes, the group of teenagers in the booth at the back is an old couple embarking on a long trip south before they get too old to make the drive; and instead of a man at the bar watching the baseball, every few miles there will be an off-duty sheriff nursing a cup of diner coffee.

In the end, it’s all the same. A small pocket universe that Alec has crossed a thousand times in a thousand different rental cars.

Perhaps the people in the diner do not exist outside of it. Perhaps they are like pictures on a TV screen that cease to be once the lights have gone off and the static has fizzled and died.

Perhaps they exist only because Alec and Magnus are passing through, creating the world around them as they go. The Midwest has that quality about it.

“I can’t remember the last time I ate diner food,” Magnus says as Alec holds the door open for him and the bell jingles above their heads. “L.A. is on a health kick right now. Everything is kale. Try ordering a steak at any restaurant within a half-mile of downtown and they’ll have the bouncer throw you out on the sidewalk with your drink still in your hand.”

“Not sure they know what kale is out here,” Alec murmurs, leading the way to a booth by the window. He slides onto the bench as Magnus slumps down across from him, dramatically throwing his head back and closing his eyes. “You’re probably safe here.”

Magnus cracks open one eye to look at Alec. Beneath the table, his toes nudge against Alec’s, and then he shifts so that their knees knock together too. He throws a grin at Alec and expects a volley.

Alec tucks a smile into the corner of his mouth and rolls his eyes. He feels fragile, but he’s always been good at acting like he’s not. He picks up the menu and pretends like he doesn’t already know it like the back of his hand.

The waitress approaches their table with a megawatt smile that only brightens when Magnus turns his focus on her, casting her in spotlight. She laughs, tucks her hair behind her ear, and asks where they’re from. Magnus says Los Angeles. The waitress tells him she has a dream of becoming a singer and moving out West, seeing Hollywood and all that .

Alec has never been, but there was a summer back when Alec was in college, where Isabelle decided to follow a boy to California, swept up in the promise of love and adventure and new opportunities. Jace and Alec had protested, their mother had expressly forbid it, but Izzy had gone anyway, and it had ended in heartbreak six months later, as these things always do.

“Everybody in L.A. is from somewhere else,” Izzy had told him, when she came home for Christmas and Alec picked her up at the airport, her life packed up into suitcases in tow. “I don’t know how to explain it. You’re drawn there because of all the - you know, all the sparkle. The glamour, Alec. But really, people there are just running away from somewhere else. Somewhere they don’t really want to be.”

“You don’t want to be here?” Alec had asked.

Izzy shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s more … you don’t realise what was good in the place you left until you’re somewhere else. But then you’re too far to phone, or it costs too much to get a plane ticket, or you just don’t want to give people back home the satisfaction of knowing that they were right.”

Back in the diner, the waitress scribbles down their order on her notepad, pours Alec a coffee, and then tells Magnus she’ll be right back with his seltzer water.

Alec can’t help himself. “Seltzer water,” he murmurs. “And you say you don’t fit in in Los Angeles.”

Magnus laughs. “I didn’t say that .”

The diner coffee is cheap and watery; the burger Alec gets has no bacon, but too many gherkins soaked in brine. The fries are soggy, left bathing in grease all evening, but the waitress brings them an extra portion at no extra charge, because she mistakes Magnus’ friendly conversation for flirtation. Her number is tucked on a napkin beneath the plate.

Magnus rolls his eyes as he shows Alec, but he’s too good a person to crumple it up and toss it to the side. Instead, he slides the napkin into the pocket of his jacket, a keepsake. A souvenir of someone else’s dreams for the future. In that sense, it almost seems precious.  

“What?” Magnus asks when he notices Alec staring. “What’s the matter?”

Alec turns his attention back to his food, pulling out a soggy gherkin from his burger and draping it across the edge of his plate. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I was just thinking.”

“Thinking?”

Alec’s eyes dart to the pocket of Magnus’ jacket and then away again.

“Alec,” Magnus gently scolds. His smile becomes sympathetic. “Just ask me what you want to ask.”

“Are you gonna call her?”

Magnus shrugs. “Probably not. But who knows. Sometimes the people you meet by accident re-enter your life further down the line and become important. I don’t know where her story might take her.”

“What about your story?”

“My story?”

Alec nods, but says nothing.

Magnus leans forward across the table. “You know my story, Alec.”

A man lights a cigarette at the table two rows behind them; he draws smoke into his lungs and it escapes through his nose, a thin grey stream falling upwards, towards the tiled ceiling. Alec watches him tap the filter on the ashtray in the middle of his table and a clump of ash disintegrates from the lit end; it lands silently, like snow. Like dust on the highway.

Magnus follows Alec’s line of sight and turns in his seat, glancing over his shoulder at the man. When he looks back, he has one eyebrow raised expectantly.

The smell of cigarette smoke fills the diner - acrid, bitter, and faintly earthy. It takes Alec back to college, to sitting out on the back porch of Magnus’ mother’s house before Magnus sold it because he couldn’t bear to look at it any more. He can picture the pack of Morley's tucked beneath Magnus’ thigh. He can still remember the way the unlit cigarette bobbed between Magnus’ teeth as he told his secrets to both Alec and the dark.

“I quit, you know,” says Magnus, in the present. “They say it’s bad for you.”

“I always told you it was.”

Magnus smirks at him and leans forward again, his elbows resting on the table. He steals a limp fry from Alec’s plate and pops it into his mouth. “I listened, didn’t I?” He nods over his shoulder towards the cigarette-smoking man. “What do you think his story is?”

“Huh?”

“What do you think his story is? Why is he here, alone at a diner in the back-end of Wyoming, past midnight in the depths of November? Smoking a cigarette? He must have a story.”

Alec’s never really thought about it. He’s always imagined the inhabitants of the diner as a backdrop, not as characters in their own story.

He looks harder at the man now: he’s older than both Alec and Magnus, salt-and-pepper hair thinning at the back. Once handsome, perhaps, but the years have stretched out his face and made his jaw sag. He’s wearing an ill-fitting suit, his shirt rumpled and his tie missing, the top button of his collar undone. He takes a deep puff of his cigarette, looks at it, and then extinguishes the lit end, grinding it into the ashtray.

“I don’t know,” Alec says slowly, looking back at Magnus. “Some sort of business trip?”

Magnus’ mouth lifts at the corners, drawing Alec in. “Perhaps, but I don’t think so. You see how he’s fingertips aren’t yellow? He’s clearly not a smoker, but he’s stressed enough to do it now.” Magnus reaches across the table and taps his finger against Alec’s fourth knuckle on his left hand. “And he’s not wearing a wedding ring, although looks like he was until recently. You see the mark?”

Alec steals a glance at the man, and then shuffles forward on the bench, so that he might drop his voice low and conspiratorial.

“Divorced, then?” he proposes.

“Maybe,” Magnus grins, “Or cheating, and he’s about to go back home and face his wife and pretend like his fishing trip with the guys from the office didn’t turn up much success, so they’re going to try again next weekend. He’s probably never fished in his life.”

Alec laughs then, loud enough to draw some attention. The sound is foreign in his mouth and a flush surges up the back of his neck as he sinks lower in his seat, hunching his shoulders and biting down on his smile.

Magnus looks delighted; in his eyes, Alec sees the reflection of the fluorescent lights above their heads, laid out like stars.

“You just made all that up from looking at him?” Alec asks.

Magnus beams at him. He reaches out and touches Alec’s fourth knuckle again. “Why, of course,” he says, and then he nods his chin towards the sheriff sat alone at the bar, making smalltalk with the waitress. “Now, how about him?”

sixth chord

The sun rises over the endless Nebraskan fields in shards of light.

Alec adjusts the rearview mirror. He will remember this moment later in figments of pale winter blue, snow-hazed pink, and November sky through the passenger window as Magnus gazes out across the passing countryside: a blank canvas for a painter to fill with bodies.

The color changes depending on where Alec chooses to angle the reflection of the mirror. Slightly to the left, and Magnus’ hands are stained in a pale wavering indigo, a purple so rare that it is only ever seen in the fleeting hour between twilight and sunrise. Move the mirror to the right, and that colour becomes orange, then gold.

Magnus swipes his hand across the condensation forming on the inside of the window, smearing colour across the landscape, but the story he might paint is hidden from view. Alec knows the start and he knows the middle - the brushstrokes the ones Alec remembers, but it’s the details that differ now -  and it’s the end of the story that is vague and undefined in sepia.

Alec thinks about cigarettes again. He wants to ask Magnus who it was that finally got him to quit. Or when exactly he started drinking seltzer water instead of shitty beer from Walmart, or decided that listening to the dial tone while waiting for Alec to pick up the phone was too much.

‘Let’s start the morning right with some ‘old but gold’ ,’ announces the radio. ‘ We’re going back twelve years to 1983 with this first track …’

Magnus makes a nose of protest in the passenger seat. The indigo has already faded from his hands, moving on to become something else, something more.

Faithfully by Journey begins to play. Alec recognises the song; in much the same way that a breath of fresh air on a cold winter morning can take him back to another place and another time, the first note paints a picture in his memories.

“This song played at Isabelle’s quincea ñ era,” he remarks. “D’you remember?”

“I remember,” Magnus says, tipping his head back against the seat and staring up at the roof of the car. He closes his eyes and basks in the light of the early morning sun. His smile grows gold. “That was the summer she dragged us all to see them in concert, wasn’t it? Jace had me make a tape for her, for the party. She played it on repeat all night.” Magnus pauses for a moment, letting his words sink in. “I also remember asking you to dance to this.”

Alec remembers that too. “Dad didn’t like that. He was pissed.”

”I’m not surprised. He tolerated me, at best. He was clearly jealous.”

Alec huffs on a laugh. “Jealous? How’s that, exactly?”

“Mhm, jealous,” Magnus reminisces. “Specifically of when I spun you around and dropped you on your ass in the grass and you laughed like I’d never heard you laugh before.”

Alec’s neck grows warm, a flush curling around his throat. He pinches at the skin between his thumb and forefinger where his hands both rest on the wheel.

“I was drunk,” he says, like an excuse. “I don’t remember much after that.”

That’s a lie. He was drunk, but he remembers being sprawled out across the grass and staring at the sky and laughing, until Magnus dropped down beside him, his hands planted either side of Alec’s head as he bent over him, and kissed him on the corner of his mouth. And he had laughed it off like it was nothing, pulling Alec back to his feet, but Alec spent the rest of the summer picking that feeling out of his teeth.

Magnus turns his head to gaze out the window again. The curve of his smile speaks of fondness, of a quieted sense of longing and looking back. He seems at peace.

“I was drunk too,” he says, after a beat, to the countryside.

And oh, Alec wants that. He covets that like he covets touch. To be able to look back and not feel all this … regret.

Isabelle’s fifteenth birthday was the first and only time they kissed. Magnus probably doesn’t even remember that night, not beyond the dancing, the beer, the spinning around and around in dizzying circles. There’s no way he would remember a kiss that wasn’t really a kiss.

Alec never once told him how he wanted to do it again.

That was the problem, in the end.

interlude

“You haven’t moved on?” says a man, once, in a bar. He’s tall and handsome, with curly blonde hair and large hands that Alec has imagined once or twice upon his chest, although it never makes his heart leap like it should.

His name is Andrew. He works in the building next door to the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington. They met at a coffee cart on the corner of the block, and this, now, is their third date.

Alec had thought it was going well.

“What?” says Alec, turning to look at Andrew, leant beside him at the bar. “What do you mean?”

“You haven’t moved on from whoever it is that you loved first,” says Andrew. He pulls his American Express from his wallet and passes it to the bartender to settle their tab, but they’ve only had one drink so far. “And you know, that’s okay. I get it. The first is always different, especially when it gets left unfinished. But I can’t see this working between us if you’re still in that place. You’re a good guy, Alec, but I deserve more than that.”

seventh chord

“Take the next left.”

Alec scowls at the road before turning to look at Magnus. He is bent over an atlas he found beneath the passenger seat - it’s not Alec’s and must’ve been left behind by whoever rented the car before him. The pages are dog-eared and coffee ring-stained, and Magnus’ finger is pressed against the thin line of the highway that divides Nebraska in two.

“What? Why? This is the quickest way.”

Magnus glances up, a look of mischief on his face. He grins at Alec.

“There’s something I want to see and we’ll be passing right by. Seems like a shame to miss it while we’re here.”

“What is it?”

Magnus’ tongue pokes out between his teeth as his smile broadens. He mimes locking his mouth with an invisible key, tucking it into his shirt pocket.

Alec huffs. “Magnus, we’re in Nebraska. All they have here is grass. And nothing. And more grass, and more nothing.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Magnus folds the atlas up and sets it on his lap. He pats it with his hands. “What’s so wrong with a little spontaneity?”

“Uh, the fact that you have to be in Baltimore in three days? For an important meeting?” Alec says, gesturing with his flat palm at the road ahead. “You know I’m still on the clock, right? This is Bureau time you want to waste.”

“It’ll be an hour’s detour. We can afford it.”

“ Magnus .”

Magnus just grins at him. It’s the same grin that used to get Alec into so much trouble back in college; it leans against his doorframe with arms folded and a come-hither look in its eyes, and Alec has never been able to say no. Not to Magnus.

Magnus laughs. “Wow, they really did shove that stick right on up your ass at Quantico, didn’t they?”

Alec glares at him, but Magnus reaches out and pats Alec on the forearm, gently curling his fingers around Alec’s wrist. His touch, unfairly, is warm.

“Come on. The turning’s coming up,” he says. “Time to make a decision, Agent Lightwood. You don’t always have to play by the rules. Live a little.”

Alec rolls his eyes, but flicks the turn signal and merges into the outside lane, slowing as the turning approaches. Magnus beams at him and his laughter is buoyant, delighted as he claps Alec on the shoulder. His hand lingers, fingers pressing into Alec’s shirt, thumb against Alec’s pulse point.

Alec takes the turning.

He takes the turning and he wishes, only once, that Magnus might tell him exactly what those rules are. For a situation like this, he wonders, when you’re in the front seat of a car on an endless highway with a man you haven’t seen in years and who, once upon a time, you would’ve followed anywhere.

Although, in the end, not everywhere.  

A sign on the roadside welcomes them to Alliance, Nebraska, but instead of houses and street lamps, it’s grass that stretches for miles in every flat direction, endless swathes of frostbitten green. The road, now, is dirt and dust, and in the distance, a single white building and a cluster of standing stones appear as a landmark on the horizon.

Alec slows the car, but as the stones come into focus, he realises they’re not stones at all.

“Are those … cars ?” Alec asks, squinting into the distance. He looks sharply at Magnus. “Magnus, what -?”

Magnus holds up the atlas, his finger pressed against a roadside attraction labelled Carhenge .

“Please tell me that’s not what I think it is,” Alec says.

“Stonehenge replicated entirely out of cars, you mean?”

“Yes. That .”

“Well, it’s not as exciting as the World’s Biggest Ball of Paint , sure,” Magnus grins. “But when in Rome, Alexander. When in Rome.”

Alec pulls off the road, passing by the visitor’s sign that reads: Carhenge and Car Art Reserve. Welcome! The parking lot, little more than a field worn thin by tire treads, is scarred by muddy trenches that have frozen solid in the night and not yet thawed, and the rental’s suspension works hard to navigate them.

Alec huffs as he pulls up the handbrake and cuts the engine, but Magnus is already twisting in his seat to reach for his coat. He shoots Alec a cavalier grin as he opens the car door and tumbles out into the cold, and the blast of icy-cold air hits Alec square in the face.

Alec grimaces, but in front of the car, Magnus knocks his knuckles against the hood and gestures for Alec to follow him. Alec grumbles and pats himself down for his keys-wallet-ID-gun , before grabbing his own coat and shoving open the driver’s door.

The only other vehicle in the parking lot is a campervan, shiny and white and sparkling in the winter sunlight, either a midlife crisis or an early retirement investment. An older couple - a man and a woman - are standing in front of it, peering over a large DSLR camera. He’s in socks and sandals and she has binoculars looped around her neck, and if the weather was any warmer, Alec is sure they would both be in cargo shorts too.

“What attracts people to places like this?” Alec mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets and turning up the collar of his overcoat as he hurries after Magnus. He hunches his shoulders, but the wind feels like it’s gusting through him, with nothing to stop or hinder it across the plains. “Why would you drive all the way out here to see … this ?”

“It’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey, Alexander,” Magnus teases, walking backwards so that he can face Alec. “Why do we do anything without purpose? Because it’s there, and because we can.”

Behind him, the large circle of cars stands out of the landscape, spray-painted grey to look even less like standing stones. Alec grits his teeth.

“It’s about those little moments that break up a long drive,” Magnus continues, nudging Alec’s arm. “Or making small and inconsequential memories that can be revisited whenever one needs something slightly absurd to fall back on. It’s something to do with another person, even if that person is insistent on being a grouch the entire time we’re here-”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Alec grumbles. “Let’s just hurry up and look because it’s fucking freezing out here and I wanna get back in the car.”

Alec’s dress shoes sink straight into the mud as they traipse across the grass towards the circle of cars; the squelch-squelch-squelch of his feet is loud enough to be heard over the wind. Along the horizon, the sun is weeping yellow, low in the sky and sinking moment by moment towards sunset, and the shadows that stretch out lengthways from the stones-that-are-not-stones are long and warped.

Alec stops when his toes meet one such shadow and he looks up at the stack of cars towering over him. He tilts his head to the side, but it looks no better from an angle. Magnus steps away from him, meandering over towards an information sign.

“ ‘Carhenge is formed from vintage American automobiles, all covered with gray spray paint,’ ” he reads out. “‘ Built by Jim Reinders, it was dedicated at the June 1987 summer solstice in memory of his father. ’ Huh. How about that.”

“My dad would kill me,” Alec mutters.

“Oh, yes, mine too,” says Magnus. He bends down and squints at the smaller text on the sign. “‘ Carhenge consists of 39 automobiles arranged in a circle measuring about 96 feet in diameter.’ ”

“That seems excessive.”

“I think it’s strangely compelling, actually,” Magnus says. “There’s something about roadside Americana that has its own distinct charm. It’s a product of human eccentricities and I like that.”

“Oh yeah, and what are you seeing?” Alec says, gesturing with his hand. “Because all I see is a 15ft tall metal monstrosity.”

Magnus wanders back over to him, pressing up against Alec’s arm for the sake of warmth. He folds his arms across his chest, shoving his hands under his arms, and huffs out warm air that forms white clouds. He gazes up at the monolith above them.

“Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Alexander,” he says. He frowns then, studying the twisted shapes of metal and fibreglass as if they’re some extraordinary work of art kept behind velvet ropes and a glass case and only allowed to be looked upon for a fleeting moment, and not an old car barely spared from rusting. “Michelangelo despised the roof of the Sistine Chapel, and yet it’s one of the most impressive feats of Renaissance art that still exists.”

“ Magnus ,” Alec presses.

“Mhm?”

Alec pauses. He studies Magnus’ face in profile: the line of his nose, the sharp cut of his jaw, the purse of his lips as he contemplates some deeper meaning that passes Alec by. High in his cheeks, the cold paints his skin red.

Alec thinks he understands a little, then. Nobody really comes to Alliance, Nebraska to see thirty-nine vintage cars spray painted grey and stacked together like some prehistoric monument from halfway across the world. There are other things worth looking at.

Alec shrinks down into the collar of his coat. “Michelangelo is overrated anyway,” he grumbles.

interlude

Here is the creation of a new memory: the orange-gold of a sunset, the cold metal of a rental car against the back of Alec’s thighs, and the warmth of a cheap coffee in his hands, steam rising and obscuring the face. The sky, shifting into navy, into darkness, into the pitting of stars as the temperature plummets and each breath becomes a plume of smoke rising heavenward.

Here, sat together on the hood of the car, Magnus touches him. Not an accidental brush of the fingers or a friendly hand on the arm while driving, but instead, Magnus tips his head to the side, letting his temple rest on Alec’s shoulder.

Here, Magnus’ whispered name crosses Alec’s lips. A question posed to the night, painful and tender and purple like a bruise (‘ what are you doing? ’), but Magnus doesn’t reply. He hums and turns his head and presses his nose to Alec’s coat.

Alec’s doesn’t dare move. Magnus’ hair tickles his jaw, and Alec wants to turn his head and press his nose there and breathe him in, but he doesn’t. Ten years ago, maybe. But not now.

So, he looks up, and he exhales as the last fragments of the sun shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. The night sky, in its infiniteness, mirrors the high plains of the Midwest: how endless, how deep, how black it all is, away from the city.

How less lonely it is with another body tucked against his shoulder. How much it hurts.

eighth chord

They find a cheap motel, afterwards, on the outskirts of the Alliance city limits. This time, there’s only one room left. One room with two twin beds made up in ugly floral sheets, and a TV without cable, and a minifridge, because that’s how it always is; how it’s meant to be; how it was, once, years ago.

Standing in the doorway of the room, Alec thinks back to their college dorm. He thinks about being eighteen and away from his parents’ home for the very first time - only one city over, but far enough, far enough to breathe - and Magnus crashing into that room, laden with boxes and a bright smile.

He thinks, aged eighteen, God, he’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen .

He thinks, aged thirty-something, that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.  

Magnus, in the present, slumps down on the bed furthest from the door with a heavy sigh and immediately toes off his shoes and flings off his coat. His suitcase is beside him on the bed, but Alec’s bag - Alec’s bag is still clenched tightly in his fingers.

He doesn’t move from the doorway. He can still feel Magnus’ head against his shoulder, Magnus’ weight against his side, and he’s not sure he’s taken a proper breath since; but then Magnus looks up and catches his eye and tilts his head as if to say, what next, Alexander?

He offers Alec a smile which Alec can’t return.

Alec swallows thickly and nudges the door closed with his hip. He pads over to the other bed, his feet sinking into the plush carpet and leaving tracks, and he sets his bag down on the very end of the mattress, and -

What next, Alexander?

There was never a what next . That’s the problem; it’s always been the problem. Alec, afraid to put a name to the feelings in his chest and step outside his comfort zone, and Magnus, unwilling to push him. This is the point they always reached: the touches, the glances, the wondering. The waiting for someone to do something. Around and around again, until Magnus couldn’t do it anymore.

This is always the point. The moment, repeated, just like the highway. Just like the diner.

Magnus exhales and cards a hand through his hair, combing it back against his head. He looks away from Alec, eyes drifting across the room until they settle on the cheap plywood door that leads to the ensuite.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he announces, and then he’s up, grabbing a towel off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

The shutting of the bathroom door is too soft and too careful, and Alec sinks down onto the end of his bed and rests his head in his hands. He closes his eyes and focuses on the outline of his badge in his jacket pocket, digging into his chest. The weight of his service weapon on his hip. The scratchy linen of the bed, the stains on the ceiling, the fuzzy TV as it cycles back and forth through the few sparse channels, even though the remote is on the bedside table and out of Alec’s reach.

He tries not to listen to the sound of rushing water through the walls.  

He goes to shower, after. When Magnus emerges from the bathroom with wet hair and a freshly-scrubbed face, there are no words exchanged as Alec passes him by.

The bathroom is small and full of steam, windowless and ventless and hot like a sauna and that’s definitely a fire hazard. Alec peels out of his suit and tugs the tie from his collar. His undershirt goes next, and then his belt, which hits the floor with a heavy clank. He stares at himself in the mirror but the reflection that stares back at him is blurred by condensation, and Alec’s finger is drawn to it, if only to leave a mark.

He wonders what Magnus would say if Alec told him of how he would write Magnus’ name in the steam on his mirror in the days after he left, standing in front of it to watch until it faded.

And it faded every time, until Alec stopped doing it.

He steps out of his pants and underwear, a puddle of creased suiting on the floor, and climbs into the shower, turning the dial up as hot as it goes. He stands beneath the spray until it scalds his skin pink, and then, once done, sits on the edge of the tub with a towel wrapped around his waist and finds himself craving a cigarette. He doesn’t smoke, not really. He just needs something to do with his hands.

When he leaves the bathroom, the TV is quiet and the light is off. A faint, electric glow escapes the bottom of the curtains, the same blue colour as the NO VACANCIES sign that overlooks the parking lot outside.

Magnus has his back to the bathroom door, his hands tucked beneath the pillow where he rests his head. He’s not asleep yet; Alec can tell from his breathing, not yet slowed. He will be able to count every long second that Alec spends staring at him, watching the rise and fall of his body beneath the covers, and he will be able to hear the moment Alec sighs and turns and leaves, padding across the room to his own empty bed.

Alec has lost count of the number of times he’s rolled over in the dark of a shuttered room that smells of mothballs and stale cigarette smoke, and reached for something that’s never been there. That hasn’t been there for years.

His mattress dips in the middle with the weight of one body. The pillow scratches at his cheek. He sets his service weapon on the bedside table, within easy reach, but hides his badge within the pocket of his jacket, out of sight but not quite out of mind. This is how it always is.

He listens to the rustle of blankets from the other bed and wonders, briefly, if Magnus has turned to look at him in the dark. He wonders what Magnus’ expression might be, and if Magnus stares at him now with the same sort of regret that Alec fails to hide.  

He is still in love with Magnus. He never stopped being in love with Magnus. This, too, is still the same.

interlude

In a wealth of human experience, the worst, by far, is what if .

ninth chord

Magnus taps his fingers against the car door, beating out an inconsistent rhythm. Alec knows it’s not a love song, but it could be something similar - a song about lost chances or maybe second chances. Sometimes, it’s difficult to distinguish between the two.

‘ THE PEOPLE OF IOWA WELCOME YOU ,’ reads a passing road sign, and it catches Magnus’ attention for a moment long enough to falter his rhythm. ‘ FIELDS OF OPPORTUNITIES. ’

There is little else to distinguish the crossing of the state line: the fields still stretch in endless directions, swathed in a fog the colour of glass. They set off late from the motel this morning because Magnus overslept and then insisted on breakfast, and refused to ask for the cheque until he had seen Alec consume something other than filter coffee.

He had offered to drive too, but Alec remembers what his driving is like: one arm propped on the wheel and the other fiddling with the radio, eyes barely on the road because, to Magnus, highways are straight lines from point A to point B and he has no time for speed traps or taking corners slowly or braking .

Alec, meanwhile, always has his hands at ten and two.

“Alexander, can I ask you something?”

Alec reaches for the dial of the radio and turns it down; this time, Magnus doesn’t try to stop him.

“I’m not stopping at another Carhenge,” Alec says. “Once is enough.”

Magnus rolls his eyes and continues tapping his finger against the car door.

“No,” he says, “No, I’ve seen my fill, I think.”

“But?”

Magnus smiles a little. “What makes you think there’s a but?”

“Because you haven’t said a word since I told you there’s no way in Hell you’re driving,” Alec chuckles. “And you’ve been thinking about something. I can tell. You do this thing with your hand -” He mimics the rubbing of his thumb and forefinger together, and then the touching of his ear. “And then you touch your ear. You used to have that piercing, remember? You’d always fiddle with it when something was on your mind.”

Magnus tugs gently at his earlobe. “I didn’t think I was so easy to read.”

“You’re not,” Alec smiles, “I’ve just known you too long. Or, uh. Knew you too long.”

Magnus hums at that. He begins spinning one of his fingers around his forefinger.

“Do you think I’ve changed? Since then?”

Alec shrugs. He’s never been that good of a liar, not in front of Magnus. And Magnus knows that; he told Alec as much, two days ago  “A bit. It would be weird if you hadn’t.”

“Hm,” Magnus considers. “You’ve changed, you know. And it’s like the strangest sense of deja-vu, because I know I know you, and yet there are these little details, these little things that seem slightly off. That I don’t recognise and I don’t know where they came from.” Abruptly, he stops fiddling with his ring and curls his fingers into the palm of his hand. He smiles wryly to himself. “And why should I? You don’t stay the same person your whole life.”

“I don’t think I’ve changed,” Alec murmurs, chewing on his lip. “I’m pretty much the same person I was back then.”

Magnus shakes his head, his smile fading. “That’s not true. I can see it in your face. You laugh more. You roll your eyes at me. Tell me no. You didn’t used to do that and I would drag you into so much shit , Alec. God, I was such a bad influence on you back then.” He pauses then, and his expression sobers. “But then, sometimes, when I catch you looking at me now, you seem ...”

He trails off, searching for the words with a flick of his hand. Alec doesn’t know what he means.

“I seem like what?” he asks.

“You seem so sad .”

Alec laughs in disbelief. “Sad? What - Magnus - I’m not sad, what do I have to be sad about?”

Magnus runs his thumb over his lower lip in thought. “That’s what I wanted to ask. Last night, in that motel room, I wondered - well. I wanted to ask if you resented me, after I left.”

Alec’s hands clench on the wheel. “If I resented you?” he repeats carefully. “Magnus, I didn’t resent you. Where’s this come from? What - what sort of question is that?”

“A genuine one,” says Magnus. “Just humour me a little. I want to know.”

Alec’s heart thumps in his chest. He forces himself to stay focused on the road. “Why are you asking about this now?”

“Why not two days ago when I found you at that gas station, you mean?”

No , Alec thinks. Not then. Before. Ten years ago, maybe.

Why didn’t you ask me then?

“Yeah,” Alec lies. “Something like that.”

Magnus frowns. “Do you not want to talk about it?” he asks.

“Do you?”

Magnus hesitates. He presses his mouth into a flat line and with his clenched fists, he taps his knuckles against the glass of the passenger window. The beat is one-two three-four , like a pair of heartbeats.

“I want to make sure you know why I had to go,” he says, eventually. “You understand that, right?”

“Right,” says Alec, unconvincingly.

Magnus huffs and leans his head into his hand, rubbing at his temple. When he continues, his words are addressed to the horizon and the straight line that leads them there and disappears into a singular point in time and space.

“I know I hurt you, Alec,” he says. “And I think you’re still hurt, in a way, because you’re both the most obtuse person I’ve ever met and yet the only person who I was always able to - who I can always see . And ... can I be honest here?”

Alec nods, but says nothing.

“Right, well,” Magnus continues. “How do I explain this? It’s … it’s frustrating . Sometimes. The way you keep looking at me out the corner of your eye like it causes you suffering to do so but you can’t help yourself. The way you didn’t pick up any of my phone calls, back then. The way we just … the way we just ended. Snuffed out like a candle.”

“But you’re the one who left , Magnus,” Alec interjects. “You’re the one who - it wasn’t me. I didn’t decide that.”

“I didn’t want to be stuck there. I wanted a career, Alec, I wanted to see what else there is ,” Magnus says, gesturing with his free hand to the open road and empty Iowan landscape. He sounds weary. “And there is so much else, so much more than a nice house in a nice neighbourhood with a white-picket fence and a dog and two-point-five kids. I couldn’t wait around for you to - I didn’t want to live the life my mom lived. She never left that place, not once. The same four walls, the same dead-end Middle American town until the end of her days. And that ... that was too small for me.”

He talks about getting out the same way painters talk about muses, the same way a traveler searches for God in the landscape: something they had to see before they died. A holy calling.

He always has.

Perhaps Alec is the ghost lingering at those New England intersections that keeps Magnus far and away from home. Alec, too afraid to cross over the threshold of a highway, destined to haunt the same small town for the rest of his life.

Too afraid to wander so far from home that he might not be allowed back. Too afraid to say something that he can’t recant, even if it’s the truth.  

Alec chews on the inside of his cheek. “Didn’t you ever ... didn’t you ever think about that sort of life? With the house, and the yard, and the dog?” he begins. “Just a little? Just a bit?”

Magnus shakes his head. “I didn’t want that,” he murmurs. “It’s not me. You know that. And after my mother passed and I sold the house, I - God, sometimes I would sit on the front porch and watch all the cars go by, passing through that town like it was nothing, like it wasn’t even a blip on their map, and I would think the world moves on without you . It doesn’t care if you don’t catch up. It doesn’t care if you’re - if you’re waiting for someone to say something they never want to say.”

He glances at Alec as he says it, and Alec realises then that he knows.

Magnus knows. Perhaps he’s known a while; perhaps he’s known since they were young that Alec loves him but refuses to say it. It is Alec’s worst kept secret, after all.

“I had to get out, Alec,” Magnus continues. “Sometimes I thought, if I stayed, I’d suffocate.”

I was suffocating too , Alec thinks. A gay man in the early 80s didn’t get to breathe . That’s just how it was.

Magnus, of course, already knows that. Alec would only be preaching to the choir if he said it aloud.

Instead, he mumbles, “I wanted to say it.”

“What was that?”

“I wanted to say it,” Alec repeats. He sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek and wishes he could squeeze his eyes closed for just a moment - but there’s the road. There’s always the road. “I just - I couldn’t. Not then. But I wanted to say it. The thing you were waiting for. From me.”

Magnus’ mouth falls open a fraction, as if, somehow, he is surprised by such a revelation. Alec feels Magnus’ stare boring into the side of his face and he fights every muscle in his body not to turn and look back, because he knows exactly what he’ll find in Magnus’ eyes and he’s not sure he can stomach it.

He has looked at Alec this way before. Hell, a thousand times before. He’s trying to understand Alec - why here and why now, why are you finally saying something after all these years of pulling me along at the other end of a string, leaving me hoping and desperate and in love with someone who couldn’t ever say it back - but Alec is not that complicated.

He’s just scared. Scared of change. Scared of veering off the side of the highway that he has driven all his life, even though a part of him wants to know what it feels like. A part of him longs for the impact because, at least then, it will all be over.

And Magnus -

Magnus has always been so difficult to pin down, so close to chewing through his own foot to get away (and Alec had always hoped he’d never quite manage it, so that he might stay with Alec, forever, in some selfish vision of the future). It’s inside of him, that need to wander and see the world and meet new people and learn from them and be better and be something . The need to throw the roadmap out the window at high speed.

“Was that -” Alec begins, but clears his throat again. “Was that not enough? For you to stay, I mean?”

Magnus’ expression softens. His shoulders slump and his hand falls away from his temple and his mouth curves upwards at the corner and he says nothing. In his eyes, however, Alec finds an answer.

Sometimes, you cannot wait to be loved at someone else’s pace. Sometimes, you deserve more than that. I deserved more than that.

And maybe -

And maybe I’m still waiting.

interlude

Another postcard, this time purchased from a roadside gas station and then left crumpled in the glove box of a rental car:

I loved you then. I love you now. I still don’t know how to say it.

tenth chord

The day Magnus left was a Sunday. The beginning of August, 1985. The sun was bright that morning, harsh on the roof of Magnus’ new car as he piled boxes and suitcases into the trunk.  

Alec had not understood what ending meant until he was standing on the sidewalk and watching Magnus pack up his life into ten square feet. He had not understood that some endings aren’t peaceful or satisfying or tie up all the loose threads of a story tangled by the writer; some endings are excoriations. They leave you raw and wounded.

The realisation, now, is that letting Magnus go a second time will be a worse experience than the first. This time, Alec already knows what it’s going to feel like.

In the rental car, the heater works hard to circulate warm air into the front seat. The windshield wipers battle against the thick blanket of fog that has rolled in across Lake Michigan and which obscures the signposts for Chicago from view. Frost covers rural Illinois in a comb of silver, not quite yet snow, but soon. Soon enough, the country will be white and glistening in the low sunlight as far as the eye can see.  

Magnus has his coat draped over him like a blanket, his arms backwards through the sleeves and his head resting against the window. He hasn’t slept, but he’s been quiet for a while now, watching the world pass by with little commentary, save for when a song to which he knows the words plays on the radio.

On the side of the road, timber-frame houses disappear in and out of existence, reappearing in various states of disrepair. A barn, an old farmhouse, a disused gas station, a tiny church built on stilts that extends out over a frozen lake on a wooden walkway.

Magnus makes a noise of interest as they pass it by, turning in his seat to look back at it as it vanishes into the fog.

“Did you see that?” he asks. These are the first words he’s said to Alec in nearly a hundred miles. “That church.”

Alec glances in the rearview mirror but, as always, they are the only car on the road and the fog swallows up the passing seconds behind them. He’s not sure how long they’ve been on this road without a turning, nothing but an undeviated line for miles, and sooner or later, the end of the road is going to take them by surprise.

Alec takes his foot off the gas and presses down on the brake instead, and the car lurches to a near-stop. Magnus jolts forward in his seat, his seat belt cutting into his chest and stopping his momentum. He turns to stare at Alec, but Alec throws his arm over the back of his seat, knocks the gearstick into reverse, and spins the car into a three-point U-turn.

Magnus sits up in his seat, his coat slipping down from his shoulders and onto the floor.

“Baltimore not on the cards anymore?” Magnus asks, as Alec turns the car around and begins driving back the way they came. “Alec, what’s going on?”

Alec leans forward over the steering wheel, squinting out into the fog. The shape of the gas station reforms out of white cloud, and then, beside it, the shimmer of the frozen lake and the small church that sits atop it. A place for prayer amidst the smell of petrol fumes and gasoline and road dust.

A traveller’s chapel , Alec notes. It seems apt.

The church is small and squat and built of dark, gnarled wood, falling apart at the seams. From a distance, it seems almost black, but the need to pull off the road possesses Alec and he pulls into the parking lot of the gas station, before locking the handbrake.

Once parked, he turns to look at Magnus, both hands still clenched on the wheel. The radio crackles with white noise, interspersed with the tune of a Christmas song that Alec doesn’t recognise. Magnus reaches out and turns the volume down.

There’s never really been a need for words.

Alec unclips his seatbelt first. He doesn’t pat himself down for keys-wallet-ID-gun . He grabs his coat from the backseat and leaps out into the cold, and doesn’t look back when he hears the passenger door slam and Magnus follow after him, albeit at a distance.  

What Alec finds is this: the wind is brittle and the walkway that leads out over the lake creaks and groans beneath Alec’s weight, but doesn’t make a noise for Magnus. On the highway behind them, a truck rumbles past, but the fog is so deep that Alec cannot see it, save for the glow of its headlights. There is a small placard nailed to the outside of the church that reads: Visit Your Roadside Chapel and a big red arrow points down at the doorway.

Alec reaches for the doorknob and gives it a twist. Behind him, he can feel Magnus watching him, arms folded across his chest to ward off the cold, in silence. He says nothing to Alec, no witty remark about the FBI’s predilection for breaking and entering, no tired smile, no weary remark about how he’s tired of waiting, which they both know means far more than it seems.

The door to the church is not locked and it opens with a fair shove, and out spills the smell of damp wood and dust and old smoke. Magnus coughs lightly, wafting his hand in front of his mouth, but Alec steps inside.

The church itself is small and cramped, barely wider than the span of Alec’s arms from wall to wall, and the cold sweeps through the gaps in the walls, carrying with it the earthy smell of burning. There are no church pews, but a padded piece of wood for kneeling in prayer sits beneath a floor-to-ceiling cross, and bible verses are scratched into the plywood walls in a messy hand. Empty beer cans and extinguished cigarettes litter the floor, and cobwebs are strung like garlands above Alec’s head, which he reaches up to swipe away.

A row of candles stand where the altar should be. Soot still clings to the wicks, as if freshly extinguished.

Alec steps forward and his feet crunch on dried leaves that have blown in through the door. He lifts his foot and looks down and finds a crumpled receipt stuck to the sole of his shoe, grey with running ink and dozens of footprints that have come before Alec’s. The date on the receipt is fifteen years ago. It was issued in Dallas, Texas.

This is a space of comings and goings. Of passing throughs. The afterimages of a thousand travellers linger here like memories and, carved into the cross above Alec’s head, he notices the words: what is more important to the traveller, the journey or the destination?

The silence sings, or maybe it hisses, like the wind rustling through the endless miles of wheatfields between here and where they’ve come from.

What is more important to the traveller, the fact that we got lost along the way, or that we made it back here, in the end, and met again?

Alec looks back over his shoulder, and Magnus is there, standing in the open doorway, waiting. His nose is red with the cold. The light behind him casts him in the pale yellow of a winter twilight. He is watching Alec with an expression that Alec doesn’t understand.

“Magnus?” Alec asks, low and gentle.

“Yes?” he replies.

“Do you have a lighter?”

Magnus’ mouth tips upwards at the corner. “I said I quit, remember?” he says, but he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a shiny, silver Zippo lighter, engraved with his initials. He places it in Alec’s outstretched hand, but his touch lingers against Alec’s wrist and the staccato of his pulse. “Here.”

Alec turns to the candles and flicks his thumb along the lighter. The flame is summoned into existence, its light dancing across Alec’s thumbnail as he lights the wick of the tallest candle.

He lights it for his mother, and then, once it catches, he lights another for Izzy, and then one for Jace and Max and his father. He recites the Catholic rotes his grandmother taught him beneath his breath, in Spanish, a whisper. Then, a prayer for Magnus, and for his mother too, wherever she might be.

And lastly, a prayer for himself, aged eighteen and away from home for the very first time. Aged twenty-three and in his graduation gown, Magus’ mortarboard on his head and Magnus’ arm around his shoulders, laughing in his ear. Aged ten years younger than he is now and standing on the sidewalk of his parents’ house, watching Magnus’ car pull away.

Magnus joins him at his side, his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him. An inch of space exists between their shoulders, but, even now, Alec can feel the warmth of him through his coat.

Alec has missed this. He will miss it again, he’s all too sure, but maybe it’s okay to have it only for a moment.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe it has to be.

“Alexander?”

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said yesterday,” Magnus says quietly. He tugs on the sleeve of Alec’s coat and turns Alec to face him. His eyes are bright - not wet, but earnest - and drop to Alec’s lips before returning upwards. “That it’s not about the destination, it’s about the journey. You know that, right?”

He squeezes Alec’s arm. He wants Alec to understand something that still remains out-of-focus.

“What do you mean?” Alec asks.

“I am sorry for the way we left things,” Magnus says, “And I’m sorry that it hurt more than I realised it would. I really am. But it doesn’t have to end the same way this time. You can change the way you remember it. Make it mean something, something fond that you can look back on. You can make it good, if you want.”  

Alec frowns. They’re a day away from Baltimore. In forty-eight hours, Alec will be back home in D.C., and in a week, Magnus will return to L.A. and the life he has built there, where he drinks seltzer water and no longer smokes and talks a mile-a-minute on an expensive cell phone about investments and equity and big-ticket numbers, and is loved by Alec at a distance.

It’s not like the highway extends into the sea. All roads eventually end, and this one must too, amounting to nothing more than four days in a nondescript rental car with Christmas music playing on the radio, but -

This doesn’t have to end the same way this time.

“Doesn’t it?” Alec asks, unable to help himself.

Magnus shakes his head and lets go of Alec’s arm. He takes a step forward and lifts the last unlit candle, holding its wick to the flame of another until it catches.

“No,” he says. “No, it doesn’t.”

interlude

Nothing that happens on the road is real. This is what Alec tells himself between diners and gas stations and faded markings down the centre of the highway.

I can love you now, while the engine’s still running. And you might love me too, while the engine’s still running. Sometimes I think that you do, when I look at you from the corner of my eye.

In the distance, Chicago rises from the fog, lit up in one thousand pin-pricks of light. It makes the world glow in the colour of cities and concrete and it feels a bit like a dream after so long passing through nowheres.

If we drive far enough, we might make it back to the place we once called ‘now’. If we drive fast enough, maybe that day will end differently and you’ll stay.

The speedometer tips over ninety and the countryside blurs into rooftops and stop lights and traffic backed up across the bridge that spans the highway. Streetlights line the side of the road and pass across the rental car in flashes of strobe and yellow.

“I don’t want you to stay there,” says Magnus, in one such patch of light. Sometimes, it’s like he can read Alec’s mind. “I want you to write a different ending, Alec. I want you to want it.”

eleventh chord

Chicago is behind them as they cross into Indiana with the stroke of midnight, a dull orange glow that seems too bright for the eyes after so many repeated nights driving in near blackness.

Their destination is getting closer, and Alec eyes each passing road sign that counts down the miles to Cleveland, then Pittsburgh, then Baltimore, then home with a heaviness in his heart that beats a slow rhythm.

It’s the rhythm that he knows - that lonely beat that matches the roll of the odometer on the dashboard - and yet it seems too fast now, accelerating towards an end point at which he has a choice to make.  

He tries to match it, that rhythm. He tries to strike a chord with the bouncing of his leg in the footwell, with the tapping of his fingers on the steering wheel. He glances across at the passenger seat to see if Magnus is looking back at him, but he’s not - he’s staring ahead through the windshield and holding himself unnaturally still.

Alec wants to slow down below the speed limit; put his foot on the brake; stall the car. Drive it off the side of the road and into a ditch and then shrug and say, guess we’re stranded for another night ‘til the tow-truck can get here . And maybe that’s dishonest - or too honest, because the thought of spending the night in the car together, crowded around the heater as if it’s a bonfire keeping them warm, does something strange to Alec’s insides - but the relentless momentum if the car is no longer a balm on his nerves.

He can’t help but think about what lies in wait at the end of the road. Another goodbye. A polite smile and a parting hug and some kind and empty and wistful words; longing and loneliness and more of the same heartbreak, made worse by the fact he knows, now, what they could’ve had, if things had ended differently the first time.

Alec doesn’t want to leave this car; he wants to keep Magnus here forever, the two of them trapped in this rocking motion of roads and highways, where Magnus tells him over and over again that it doesn’t have to end and Alec believes him.

Alec wants to keep driving off the very edge of the continent and into the Atlantic Ocean. He wants to arrive in Baltimore and say, take me with you . He thinks about grabbing Magnus’ hand when he steps out of the car, and saying, don’t leave me behind this time. Take me with you. Take me somewhere that isn’t here. I’ve had enough of coming and going back to the same place as before. You’re right about that. You’ve always been right about me.

Magnus shifts in the passenger seat, clearing his throat.

“We should probably find a motel. It’s getting late,” he says. He doesn’t need to say it, because Alec is already thinking it: tonight is the last night. Tomorrow, Alec will be in his own bed, and Magnus, in some fancy hotel room paid for on a corporate credit card. “We both need a good night’s sleep. For tomorrow.”

“Right,” Alec echoes. He clenches his jaw. “Tomorrow.”

The air in the car is thick and heavy, so Alec reaches for the radio to try and suffocate his own thoughts. He skips through the stations until he finds one that sticks, and then turns up the volume. The voice of a man quoting late-night scripture fills the front seat:

‘So, flee youthful passions and pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace, along with those who call on the Lord for a pure heart.’

Magnus exhales through his nose and runs his palms up and down his legs, digging his fingers into his thighs. His eyes catch Alec’s in the rearview mirror.

A decision, then. Alec has seen this look before.

“I really think we need to find a motel,” Magnus says again, more forcibly this time. “Let’s check the map. Can you pull over?”

“Huh?” says Alec, “Just switch the light on, it’s okay. I don’t mind. Pick somewhere that sounds good and tell me which exit I need to take.”

“Alec,” Magnus insists. “Pull over.”

Alec looks at him, confused. “What? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Really. I just need you to stop driving, please.”

“Okay, uh. Okay. Hang on, I’ll just -” The turn signal flashes and Alec steers the car off the side of the highway and onto the grassy verge. The tires sink into the mud and the car jostles them from side to side until, finally, coming to a stand still.

Magnus unclips his seatbelt and reaches for the glove box, retrieving the atlas from inside. He spreads it out on the dashboard between them, running his fingers down the page until he finds where they are, and then flicks on the cabin light above their heads.

The car becomes an island, then. The sky is clear and the road behind them is almost empty, and the world outside is completely black and they are floating in an endless void. And all that exists is Magnus leaning across the gearstick and grabbing Alec’s hand and pressing his fingertip to a point on the map and saying, “there.”

“There?” asks Alec, looking up at Magnus’ face. His voice is a whisper now. “What’s there? A motel?”

“A motel,” Magnus agrees, shifting forward on his seat, closer to Alec. His grip on Alec’s wrist is vice-tight, his rings cold against Alec’s skin. “What do you think?”

Alec pauses. There is an unasked question here, hidden in the silence between words. It’s a proposition and Alec wants to get the answer right.

But Alec also wants to kiss him. He can smell Magnus’ cologne, the aftershave patted onto the slope of his jaw in the bathroom of a cheap motel that morning. He can feel the heat of him. He can feel the flutter of Magnus’ pulse where Magnus’ thumb is pressed insistently against his skin.

He wants to kiss him and muster the courage he could never find before, and he wants to say fuck it . Give him that moment of undoing, or redoing, or whatever the fuck it is that he wants the last few years to have meant.

He’s pretty sure that’s what Magnus wants too.

“Alexander?”

Kiss me now while the engine’s still running.

“I don’t want this to end.”

“I know you don’t,” says Magnus. “I don’t either.”

“No. No, Magnus, you don’t know. You don’t - you can’t ,” Alec insists. “You can’t know because I never said anything. That’s the whole point. I never said anything, even though we both knew how I felt. We both knew. And despite all that, we still didn’t do anything about it because in the end, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. I loved you and I think you loved me and it didn’t matter.”

He and Magnus exist in a not-time. This place isn’t real; Alec can speak to these feelings and not be beholden to them in the morning, or at the end of the road, or wherever it is that they’re heading. Not if he doesn’t want to.

But he does want. He wants more than one man with a body can bear.

I loved you then but it didn’t matter. But it matters now because I can say it. Because we have circled around and found each other again after all this time and that -

That has to mean something.

Magnus’ hand relaxes on Alec’s wrist; his fingertips brush across the back of Alec’s knuckles, across the roadmap between them on the console. It is tentative and questioning and even now, still says, you can drive away if you need to.

Alec inhales deeply. He shakes his head.

He meets Magnus’ eyes on purpose.

“I was afraid that the next time you walked into my life, I wouldn’t know how we fit together,” he whispers. “I was worried that something inside of me, inside of you, would’ve changed, because things always change after this long, but - it hasn’t.”

Beneath Alec’s palm, Washington lies hidden. In the dark, the paper rustles.

“You haven’t, Magnus. Not when it comes to me.”

interlude

The radio sings, ‘It will never be the same, baby.

We will always be the same, baby.’

twelfth chord

Alec’s hand shakes as he fumbles with the key in the motel room door.

Magnus stands a half step behind him, his breath forming white clouds that float and dissipate over Alec’s shoulder. The smell of his aftershave carries. There’s a deliberate space left between their bodies, greater than the distance that has existed between them in the car for the last four days.

It’s the furthest they’ve been apart since Alec approached that phone booth back in Idaho.

“Fuck,” Alec mutters, as the key sticks in the lock and refuses to turn. His palm is sweaty and anticipation licks up the side of his throat where the collar of his shirt is too tight. “Sorry, just give me a sec-”

Magnus leans over his shoulder and takes the key from him, sliding it into the lock with ease. The door clicks, and then swings open.

This motel room is just like all the rest: two beds, one TV, the oddly stained carpet. Thin plywood walls. A single light that plunges the whole room into that low-res yellow of cheap nighttime lodgings.

Alec places both their bags on one of the beds, exhales, and then, when he turns back, Magnus is standing against the closed door. His head is tilted back, his chin aloft, and his arms are folded across his chest, the sleeves of his coat tight around his arms.

His eyes are dark and molten. Where Alec is an unlit cigarette, he is the match.

And that’s enough. All things end and all endings are terrible in their own way, and Alec doesn’t know why he shouldn’t lean into the inevitable if it’s something he can’t avoid.

He abandons the bags and steps towards Magnus, grabs him by the lapels of his overcoat, and kisses him.

Immediately, Magnus opens his mouth to Alec; the sound he makes into the kiss has the hairs on the back of Alec’s neck standing on end. They stagger back against the door with a thud , and Magnus grabs at Alec’s coat, shoving it from his shoulders, then pulling Alec’s shirt out of his belt, his hands slipping beneath Alec’s undershirt so that he can feel skin.

Something rattles around inside of Alec and maybe it’s his heart come loose at last. He kisses Magnus ever deeper for it; his chest aches; his heart aches. He should’ve kissed Magnus sooner, and yet it feels like this is the only moment in time and space where it’s meant to happen: some dingy motel in rural America where it’s just the two of them and Alec has made a choice where he refuses to let this separation be the same as the last.

They’ve never needed to speak. The span of time hasn’t changed the connection between them; Alec could be his twenty-three year old self; he could be his eighteen year old self; his self from five days ago, picking up the keys to a rental car in the backwoods of Oregon state - he would still be in love with Magnus, whether or not he has said it out loud.

Alec cups the sides of Magnus’ jaw and tilts his head back, deepening the kiss. Magnus’ tongue presses into his mouth, his hand flat against the small of Alec’s back, his fingers pressed against Alec’s spine. He pulls Alec closer until their bodies are flush.

And oh, it’s so easy for Alec to lose himself to the push and pull of it: the lick of Magnus’ tongue, the pliance of his mouth. His hands are so warm as they settle on the slope of Alec’s waist.

Alec feels like he’s standing in the middle of a highway, staring down the headlights of an oncoming truck, willing it to move first or be moved . His heart is pounding loudly in his chest. The light is so bright that he is blind to everything else.

Is this driving off the edge of the road or is this the impact?

The kiss leads to the bed. The bed leads to shucked clothes and kicked-off shoes and Alec tossing his badge and service weapon blindly onto the bedside table as Magnus kisses down his throat and the blood rushes to Alec’s head.

Magnus pins him back against the starchy motel pillows, one hand splayed on Alec’s chest - stay still, don’t move - while his other hand cups Alec’s hip and his thumb slips into the band of Alec’s underwear.

No. It is the destination.

Magnus runs his hands down the inside of Alec’s legs, his palms smoothing across Alec’s thighs. His eyes meet Alec’s as he presses his mouth against Alec’s knee.

Alec’s eyes fall closed.

He wants to say something about endings, to gasp, to whisper it. He wants to ask what happens next: if he is to leave Magnus on the side of the road in Baltimore tomorrow and never hear from him again; or if Magnus will fly back to Los Angeles in a week’s time and only look back on this moment as one of those pocket memories of his, something fond to warm him on colder nights.

Alec doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to be an uncalled telephone number in Magnus’ diary again; he doesn’t want to stop here , with Magnus’ mouth slowly kissing up his inner thigh. He cannot let Magnus slip through his fingers a second time, so he reaches out and pulls Magnus towards him, up the length of his body, crushing his mouth against Magnus’ and swallowing Magnus’ untethered gasp. He kisses Magnus’ jaw, and then the side of Magnus’ neck, and then he presses his nose to Magnus’ shoulder and breathes him in.

He says nothing, but he has to screw tight his eyes to stop himself from doing something stupid, like letting a stray tear roll down his cheek and wet the pillow. Magnus wraps his arms around him and holds him tight, words whispered in Alec’s ear that he’s been waiting ten years to hear and which Magnus thinks must all be said in one night.

Alec is too old for messes of the heart like this, but maybe that’s the problem: how long they’ve delayed this particular end, to the point that neither of them know how to exist in a world after .

interlude

The final postcard never sent:

“The boy in the yellow shirt walks like there is all the room in the world. I am standing on the edge of what is an ending world.” 2

I read this in a book that Catarina leant me. I think it’s about us, or at least it’s about me, the first time I laid eyes on you.

Come to L.A.

thirteenth chord

Alec wakes up alone in the bed, his arm outstretched across the mattress, his hand palm-up to the ceiling. There is an ache in his legs, bruises scattered across his thighs like the shattered glass of a windshield spread across the road. The smell of sex hangs heavy both in the air and on his skin where sweat has dried and not been scrubbed away, and when he tries to speak, his voice is hoarse and raspy.

Beside him on the bed, the pillow is cooling - but not yet cold.

Disappointment curls in Alec’s gut, but in his head - well, that’s empty, devoid of the constant noise that has existed there for the past few days, if not years. He hasn’t noticed until now that it mimics the sound of a car engine, a forever rumble.

There is simplicity to the silence now. The carpet is cold when Alec’s feet hit the floor, a draught slicing beneath the bed. Magnus’ suitcase is gone from the other bed; his clothes gathered from the floor. The smell of his cologne has faded, replaced by the musty smell of floral bedsheets and mothballs and wallpaper that has absorbed the smoke of a hundred cigarettes.

The only evidence of Magnus being here is his absence.

His absence - and the way Alec’s mouth tingles when he brings his fingers up to touch his lower lip.

Alec brushes his teeth to the sound of the faucet running, water gushing down the drain. He splashes his face and dresses in the crumpled clothes from yesterday that still smell like the front seat of the rental car and shakes carpet fibres out of his overcoat where it still lies by the door.

Keys. Wallet. ID. Gun. He moves through the motions on autopilot, patting his pockets and then his chest as he mentally tallies up the parts of himself worth collecting - but then stops. Standing in the middle of the motel room with his bag in his hand, he turns to look at the unmade bed, the sheets kicked into a pile, a backdrop to a journey he has taken so many times before.

The difference, now, is in the details. It feels significant. It’s worth remembering.  

Crossing to the window, he throws open the curtains and sunlight streams into the room, flooding every dark corner. Alec squints against the light, raising his hand to his face to shield his eyes. A faint sheen of frost forms fractals on the outside of the glass and, beyond that, the roof of the rental car, the prelude to the first snow of winter.

Leant against the side of the car is Magnus.

Alec inhales deeply, his breath clouding upon the window. The cold draws down into his lungs - a sharp ache inside of him that he holds for a count - and then he exhales. Deflates. Sinks back into a rhythm that is both familiar and somehow different to the one he has known for so long, as if the world now beats in imperfect time.

Magnus is propped against the hood of the car with his eyes closed and his head tipped back to catch the sun, and he doesn’t stir when Alec shuts the motel room door behind him and the gravel of the parking lot crunches beneath his shoes. On the side of Magnus’ neck, there is a hickey bitten darkly into his skin. It’s the colour of rare indigo.

Alec doesn’t feel the need to avert his gaze now.

“Have you ever been on a roadtrip?” Magnus asks, opening his eyes when he feels Alec’s shadow cross his body.

Alec frowns at him as he bends down to grab Magnus’ suitcase, before tossing both their bags into the backseat. “Isn’t this a roadtrip?”

Magnus waves his hand aimlessly. “No, this is serendipity, Alexander. I’m talking about a comprehensive tour of all the worst diner coffee in the continental United States. Hiking in the Grand Canyon. Exploring the redwood forests of the Pacific Northwest.” He looks at Alec and smiles a coy smile, pushing away from the car. “You know, in Indiana, they have the World’s Largest Ball of Paint? I’d like to see that sometime. All the best roadside Americana that the country has to offer.”

Alec rounds the car to the driver’s door, opens it, but doesn’t get in. He leans his arms on the roof of the car and Magnus, on the other side, turns to face him.

“But Baltimore,” says Alec.

Magnus’ smile softens. “But Baltimore,” he agrees, across the span of the roof. He glances at his watch. “Providing we don’t hit gridlock outside the city, I should be right on time for my meeting and Raphael won’t have the pleasure of removing my head from my shoulders. You always were excellent at keeping me punctual.”

Alec smiles quietly, ducking his head. “Yeah, well, one of us had to live in the real world.”

He climbs into the car and Magnus follows, folding himself into the passenger seat and draping his coat across his lap. He buckles himself in and then leans back to look at Alec as Alec slots the key into the ignition.

“What?” Alec asks. He reaches up to touch his neck, in the same place where the bruise forms on Magnus’ throat, but can’t find any tenderness. “Is there something on my face?”

“No,” Magnus says gently. “No, not at all. I was just thinking that sometimes the real world is rather overrated. In my experience, the longer one can put off returning to it, the better.”

Alec turns the key and the car splutters into life. The heater blows warm air into the front seat, condensing upon the windshield, and when Alec reaches out to direct the flow of air downwards, Magnus covers Alec’s hand with his.

It’s a reflection of the night before, but without the urgency.

Magnus curls his fingers around Alec’s hand and brushes his thumb over Alec’s knuckles. Then, he brings Alec’s hand up to his mouth and presses his lips to Alec’s fingers, his eyes falling closed and his eyelashes casting feathered shadows on his face.

Alec holds his breath. He waits for Magnus to say something, to say so let’s not go back to the real world yet because I’m happy here , but he doesn’t.

Happy is too vague a concept. Not that Alec isn’t happy here, in this particular not-real moment, but it’s a feeling that belongs to strange, liminal motels and repeated diners. It is hard to grasp, and harder still to fathom how it might slip into the spaces occupied by a life back in the city at the end of the road.

Magnus sets Alec’s hand down on the gearstick between them, and settles back into his seat, kicking his feet up on the dashboard. He tips his seat back and rests his head against the window as Alec puts the car into reverse.

The road is quiet but not deserted. Alec knows that they will meet traffic before too long, but, for a moment, he imagines the highway stretching beyond the horizon and continuing into the sky, winter-blue and endlessly deep, leading above and beyond the curve of the Earth.

There’s a very thin dusting of snow on the hard shoulder, and the sun, shockingly bright, refracts off it with a white glare. It’s the sort of daylight that possesses Alec, that fills him up and makes him feel separate from his body.

If Alec rolled down the window, that daylight would spill in and flood the car, crisp and cold and foreign. But here in the warmth, he unspools a story in his half-awake mind: him and Magnus and the unending road. If they stop moving, they’ll die. If they stop driving, they’ll die. There was a Keanu Reeves movie about that recently , Alec thinks. It probably didn’t end well.  

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

Alec glances sideways at Magnus. “What happened to quitting?”

“Oh, I did,” says Magnus. He produces an unopened pack of Morley’s from the folds of his coat and inspects it curiously. “But I got this from the motel reception this morning on a whim and it feels like a waste otherwise.”

Alec rolls his eyes. “Right,” he says, but he cracks open the driver’s window and the cold rushes in. The wind ruffles through his hair, funneled by the cuffs of his jacket up the length of his sleeves and into his coat. A shiver ripples down his spine and he grimaces.

Beside him, Magnus pulls a cigarette out of the pack with his teeth and cups his hand around his lighter as he lights it, before holding it out to Alec.

“I haven’t smoked in years,” Alec says, but he takes the cigarette anyway and taps the lit end against the ashtray on the console. “You can’t laugh.”

Magnus lights a second cigarette, the clink of his lighter sharp, like metal. He draws in a deep breath, pulling smoke down into his lungs, and then exhales. The grey plume rises towards the roof, only to be sucked suddenly out of the open window.

Magnus coughs, clearing his throat, and takes the cigarette from his mouth, only to pull a face at it.

“Tastes like what I imagine licking the floor of that motel would be like,” he says, before stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray. He frowns at the packet in his hand, before throwing it into the glove box. “Let’s stop at the next gas station. I need something to wash that out of my mouth.”

“Okay,” says Alec, unable to stop himself from smiling. His cigarette warms his fingers. His stomach growls at the thought of cheap diner coffee and a greasy bacon burger for breakfast. He presses his foot down on the gas and shifts the engine up a gear.

A passing road sign reads: Baltimore, 405 km . About a five hour drive.

Alec will miss this rental car.

interlude

In the dark of a motel on the night before, Magnus’ eyes are almost black. Alec studies him from across the pillow, their noses nearly touching. Magnus’ hand, splayed on Alec’s ribs, draws gentle circles into Alec’s skin, while Alec’s ankle lies tangled with both of Magnus’ legs.

Magnus’ body is warm. It’s rhythm is familiar in the way that it matches Alec: how he moves, how he breathes, how the sound of his heartbeat disturbs the silence of the motel room.

If Magnus were to speak, he would say, ‘something is only beautiful because it does not last forever .’ But he does not speak, so Alec cannot say back, ‘ that’s not true. You’ve always been beautiful .’

Instead, he leans forward and he kisses Magnus and he earns a soft groan for his troubles as Magnus curves into him like the other side of a parenthesis, ‘til now unpaired.

Magnus’ hand slides upwards, cupping the back of Alec’s head. His thumb caresses the shell of Alec’s ear and the soft hair above it.

He pulls himself against Alec’s chest, his other hand trapped between them, pressed over Alec’s heart.

He kisses Alec back.

outro

The woman in the apartment above Alec’s has Christmas lights in her window: red and green flash in alternating patterns and Mariah Carey’s faint warble can be heard from the sidewalk as Alec gazes up at his building and allows himself to watch, if only for a moment.

His bag is heavy on his shoulder and his suit is stiff across his back; the thought of a shower is calling him home, but he wants to linger outside a little longer. The cold is sharp against his face and draws a red flush to his cheeks. His breath escapes him in white clouds, tumbling upwards. Baltimore lingers on his skin with the memory of a parting kiss.  

He is, now, alone.

On his doorstep, his neighbour has left him an early Christmas card; she has done the same for the last few years, concerned for the young man who lives alone and never has his family visit once December comes around. As Alec unlocks his front door, he slips his finger beneath the seal of the envelope and tears it open, and the message inside is the same as it always is, wishing him and his loved ones well for the holidays.

He places the card on the sideboard by the door as he toes off his shoes, and wanders into his living room, dumping his bag on the floor as he goes.

The stillness in his apartment is strange: the air is musty, the windows unopened for nearly two weeks now, and while there’s no dust on his coffee table yet, the scattered paperwork and unwashed coffee mug are somehow disturbed by his presence.

There are dishes in his kitchen sink and his bed is still unmade; the space is exactly as he left it, and returning to it feels a little like disembarking an airplane after a long journey spent cramped in one mindset, and now having to reacclimatise to solid ground.

Alec is not sure why he expected his apartment to be changed. Even in some small way, like the rotating characters at a diner, or the different coloured carpet at each roadside motel, or the occupancy of his passenger seat by a man he thought he’d never see again, he hoped for something new. Something welcomed but unrecognised, symbolic of a new start or, perhaps, a second chance.

Oh. Maybe he’s the one a little changed, then.

It’s not about the destination , after all , he tells himself, reaching for the remote to turn the TV on for background noise. It’s about the journey.

Briefly, he wonders if this happens every time: if each successive back-and-forth across America wears him down just a little, like the treads on car tires, and it’s only now that he has changed enough to notice that he no longer fits into the routine once occupied with ease. In his footsteps, he brings the liminality of the road into his own apartment, the threshold moment between one state of being and the next.

And Alec is okay with that.

He locks his service weapon in the safe on his desk. Loosens his tie. Pulls a bent postcard from Carhenge, Nebraska, a receipt from a gas station just outside of Baltimore, and a nearly-full pack of Morley’s from his jacket pocket and sets them all on the coffee table, before throwing his coat over the back of the couch to take to the dry cleaners tomorrow.

His suit jacket goes next - two days old and creased around the elbows - and then his belt, a heavy thunk on the floor, before he pads into the bathroom and turns on the shower so that the water might have time to heat up before he gets in.

He strips down to his underwear and wanders back out into his living room, and it’s then that he notices the red flashing light on his answering machine: a voicemail.

He hits the play button - ‘ you have three unread messages ,’ says the disembodied voice - and he pours himself a glass of water as he listens first to Jace ramble on about not coming home for the holidays, and then to his mother discuss her plans to visit her solicitor next week.

Alec empties his glass and sets it in the sink to be washed later. He heads back to the bathroom, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders, and the answering machine beeps to signify the final message.

‘ Alexander, it’s me. ’

Alec stops and turns to stare at his answering machine as if it might come alive in front of him.

‘ You’re probably not even back in D.C. yet, but - well ,’ says Magnus. ‘ I made it on time to the meeting, in case you’re interested. I’m never going to hear the end of it from Rafael, of course, and he’s never going to let me drive anywhere alone again, but it’s looking like we’ll be able to close a deal before Christmas. It sounds like I’m going to be back and forth between L.A. and Baltimore a lot next quarter.’  

In the background, Alec can hear the sound of people, of a bustling street, of taxi cabs blasting their horns as Magnus tries to hail one down.

‘ But I all that aside, this couldn’t wait and, I suppose, serendipity can only get you so far.’

Alec reaches for the handset, poised above the redial button, but then something in Magnus’ tone changes. In his words, Alec can hear the sound of his smile.

‘ How far is the drive from Los Angeles to Indiana?’ Magnus asks. ‘No, wait, how far is the drive from Baltimore to Indiana? I’ve been thinking a little more about the World’s Biggest Ball of Paint. Perhaps you’d like to see it with me.’

The beat of Alec’s heart shifts in its rhythm once again. He holds his breath. He imagines himself taking a step over that imaginary threshold.  

‘There are too many things I haven’t told you yet. ’

*****

“They have worries, they're counting the miles, they're thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they'll get there - and all the time they'll get there anyway, you see.”

― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

[meat-husband]

Do you think you'd write a part two to that yandere!vincent piece you wrote? :0 I haven't stopped thinking about it, it was soo good!

Well, this is like the third or fourth one now lol but here’s a lil origin story for how reader came to be in the basement.

I am boo boo the fool and completely forgot to q this, so it’s a day late lol

-

The shop you worked at was dirty, a grimey place that stayed open 24/7 to cater to the main clientele, the long haul truckers that came in off the interstate. It provided quick food and as many cups of coffee as you could drink, so long as you didn’t mind the rundown environment, but it wasn’t the kind of place that anyone expected five star meals from.

Opposite to most places, the peak hours were almost exclusively late at night, when most drivers needed to stop off for something to keep them going overnight. The daytime shift was slow, a trickle of people that dried up into nothing as the afternoon went on, with only the occasional customer. The food you sold was all premade convenience store fare, hotdogs and chicken left in a spinning rotisserie until someone was desperate enough to buy one, so you usually spent the downtime reading, tucked into a chair behind the counter. You barely looked up when the bell rang, signaling the arrival of another customer. In any other store it might have been rude not to offer some sort of hello, but the people that came through here were blunt and rough edged, getting in and out with little to no small talk.

“Hey, there.”

You drop your book, standing to ring up whatever has been laid on the counter, but you find it empty. You look up, meeting the eyes of the man across from you, but he has nothing in his hands and judging by the way he approached the counter, he wasn’t interested in looking around.

“Smokes?” You ask, already turning to flip open the display case.

“No, thanks,” he replies with an easy smile, leaning an elbow on the counter between you. “Not lookin’ to buy anything today.”

You frown at him. He was handsome, dark hair and sharp brown eyes, and the twitch of his lips as you looked him over told you that he knew it. His clothes were plain and worn, dirty from work, and he didn’t necessarily look out of place, but he didn’t look like a trucker either.

“Well, this is a store,” you tell him, sliding the display door closed. “If you’re not gonna buy anything, ain’t no point comin’ in.”

That gets a laugh out of him, smile widening, but his good humor only irritates you. You might not have been busy, but that wasn’t an invitation for him to come wandering around looking for conversation.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and it sounded genuine, tamping down his amused tone to something more charming. “I don’t mean to bother you, I just came in because of my brother.”

He gestures vaguely over his shoulder and you lean to the side to look out the dingy window. The parking lot is big, a shared space with the weigh station next door. A few trailers are parked across the way, but the spots closest to your shop are empty, except for one. A beat up old thing, streaked with mud and trailing a bumper that was tenuously held in place, stood a few rows back. Someone may have been in the cab of the old truck, but it was too far away to see.

You turn your eyes back to the man in front of you, frowning again. “Okay, then what’s he want? You said you weren’t buying anything.”

“Well, we’ve been by a few times before. Just stopping in from time to time, you know.”

You supposed this might be true, even though you don’t recognize him, but there weren’t really any regulars out here, so you didn’t bother to remember names or faces. He stops to give you a look that you think is supposed to be charming, but you’re at the edge of your patience already. He’s not spending money, so you’re not getting paid to stand here and listen while he tries to talk you up.

“My brother, now, he’s pretty shy -”

Here we go, you think, crossing your arms and glaring. Of course it’s all an elaborate set up, probably to ask for your number. It’s not the worst excuse you’ve heard, and it’s a good deal more polite than you’re used to, but there’s no way you’re sending this guy away with anything but a firm no.

“- so he didn’t want to come in himself, but he’s got quite a crush on you, and -”

“No.”

He stops, tilting his head to the side and looking at you with a confused smile that borders on annoyed. “‘No’ what?”

“You can’t have my number, or know when my shift ends, and I don’t want your number - or your ‘brother’s’.”

The smile slides from his face, straight into a nasty glare, face twisting with anger. It makes you pause for a moment, a trickle of fear running through the back of your mind, but there is a little bit of satisfaction at seeing the arrogant look wiped off his face.

He stands up, taking his elbow off the counter.

“Alright, fine.” He spits the words at you, turning back towards the door.

You watch him stalk away, a little bit of relief flooding you, but it doesn’t last for long. Halfway to the door, he stops, raising both hands as if in surrender, and slowly turns back to face you. He gives you a forced smile, taking a few steps towards the counter.

“Alright, maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” he starts, and you can’t help but roll your eyes. “Why don’t we start over, huh?”

“Sure.” Your voice is sour, arms crossed over your chest and eyes glaring, but he continues despite your obvious frustration.

“My name is Bo,” he says, putting obvious effort into keeping his tone friendly. “Nice to meet you.”

You bite out your first name in return, quick and short, hoping to get this over with and send the creep on his way. His forced smile doesn’t waver, plastered over his face like a mask.

“Now, like I was saying, my brother is a little shy,” Bo repeats, his demeanor slowly becoming more calm as he speaks. “But I noticed Vincent makin’ eyes at you whenever we came by, so I thought I’d come in and put in a good word for him.”

You stare at him for a moment, letting the silence linger between you to make sure that he’s done with his pitch. Bo returns your stare, tensed shoulders betraying the irritation that lurked under the friendly veneer he had put up.

“Alright. Good word duly noted,” you reply, voice even. “That all?”

He stares at you, face slack with confusion at first, but you see the spark of anger light up his eyes when your words finally hit him. When he turns around, throwing the shop door open on his way out, it’s not the reaction you had expected. It was an abrupt end to the unpleasant conversation, but you couldn’t say that you weren’t happy to finally have the man out of the store.

-

Working the morning shift means you’re not out of the store until late afternoon, the cool fall sky already going dark, and by then all thoughts of the encounter were out of your mind. You hadn’t been fortunate enough to snag a ride home, so no car waits for you in the parking lot, and the walk home is the only thing you’re thinking of when you leave. It wasn’t a dangerous area, exactly, but a cheap convenience store just off the interstate wasn’t a good place to be caught off guard, either.

The parking lot exits onto a small paved road, more of an alley that branches off from the main street. On the far side there is a larger path closer to the interstate, usually lined with parked trailers, and the weigh station in the distance is the only source of light once you leave the first row of spots outside the shop. You head towards the little road, eyes on the ground as you walk the familiar path, and you wouldn’t have noticed him at all if it weren’t for the sudden spark of headlights ahead of you.

An old truck is parked at the edge of the lot, lurking in the darkness just outside the exit onto the road. The engine rumbles loudly when it’s started, headlights burning white in the shadows and your attention is immediately pulled towards it. The door jerks open, a figure leaning half out of the truck, and you frown when you recognize who it is.

You need to walk past the vehicle to get to the road, so you firmly plant your eyes on the ground, hoping to slide around it and stay out of the headlights. Even if he does spot you, you reason, the jacket and hood you’ve slung over your work clothes might be enough to keep him from recognizing you.

The truck is leaking exhaust and your eyes water as you approach, raising a hand to rub at them. Your gaze leaves the ground for only a moment, but they land on the figure now coming around the front of the truck. He lifts a hand in greeting and you huff, annoyed to see that he had, indeed, noticed you. You look at him from the corner of your eyes as you pass, trying to avoid meeting his eyes. Had he been waiting for you? It couldn’t have been a coincidence that he was lingering outside as you left, but you didn’t recall seeing him after that morning.

“Hey!”

The sudden shout startles you and, against your better judgement, you look up at him in surprise. There is a smile on his face, friendly and charming, just as he had been when he had introduced himself.

You give him a half nod, feeling awkward that your attempt to ignore him hadn’t worked out, and turn to leave, picking up the pace as you walk away. The feeling of eyes on your back makes your skin crawl, but you don’t turn around.

Footsteps, loud and fast, follow you along the cracked pavement. The sound makes your muscles tense, a spot on the back of your head tingling where you imagine his eyes are focused, and your heart beats faster the closer they get.

You turn at the last second, facing him with a scowl on your face.

“Are you following me?”

He smiles. It probably should make you scared, but through the adrenaline you’re just irritated, seeing the annoyingly smug look he’s fixing you with.

“Sorry, just tryin’ to get your attention,” he replies, stopping a few feet away and putting his hands in his pockets. “I wanted to apologize, you know, for earlier.”

You find your frustration with this man growing by the second. The brief encounter you had had this morning was hardly on your mind hours later, so you couldn’t see why he was so determined to not only bother you even more, but to keep bringing up his past rudeness.

“Yeah, alright,” you agree with a sigh, already starting to turn away. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“Well, that’s kind of you,” he says, stepping to the side and keeping himself in front of you. “But I feel real bad about it, and I’d like to make it up to you.”

Your eyes narrow and you feel yourself go from irritated to pissed before he’s even finished saying the words. How persistent could one man be when you were very obviously not interested?

“Can you please fuck off?” You can see that the sudden venom in your voice catches him off guard. “How creepy is it to follow someone around a dark parking lot trying to hit on them after they’ve already said no?”

It takes him a moment to think up a reply, but you can see the outrage on his face.

“Hey,” he snaps back, all the friendliness gone from his voice and his face red from anger. “Don’t fuckin’ flatter yourself, I already told you it’s my brother -”

You cut him off with a mocking laugh, watching as his face reddened further. Maybe he was angry or maybe he was embarrassed at being called out, but you don’t want to spend anymore of your day talking to him.

“Yeah, whatever you say.”

The parking lot is big and dark, but somehow you feel safer walking into its shadows than trying to pass by the old truck parked next to the exit. You’ll take the long way around to avoid him, you decide, mentally mapping out your path. The median between the pavement and the road was uneven and overgrown, but you would risk slipping in the underbrush if it meant you could go in the opposite direction from him.

The familiar sound of footsteps, heavy, angry breathing and the metallic pop of a car door all reach your ears at once. You’re grabbed by the arm, too fast for you to even think of resisting, too fast for you to even turn and face the man behind you. He has you overwhelmed in a fraction of a second, taking control of your body’s movements and wrenching your arms behind your back with a practiced ease.

You cry out, a confused noise that you don’t mean to let out, trying to spin your head around far enough to see him over your shoulder. A rough shove forces your arm further into an awkward position, a sharp white pain seizing up your shoulder, but you can’t wiggle away.

“You should have been nice,” the man snarls into your ear, hot breath on the side of your face. “Would have turned out better for you that way.”

He sounds almost excited.

You hear him, but the words don’t sink in fully. The pain in your arm is too much to comprehend anything else, but your mind still recognizes the threat.

“Lot of fucking help you were!”

The words are shouted into your ear and you’re confused for a moment, before you realize that they weren’t directed at you. He turns and you’re forced to shuffle around in front of him, the pressure on your shoulder searing down your side.

The passenger door of the old truck has been thrown open, but you hardly have time to realize that before someone is in front of you. A large, cold hand is pressed to your face, palm against your cheek, fingers curling around the messy bits of hair that now stick to your sweaty face. You try to jerk back, but there’s nowhere to go with your arm still held in a vice grip behind you.

Your face is level with their chest, lanky black hair and a worn jacket all that you can see of them. The hand on your face cups your cheek in a too familiar way and you can sense that they are leaning over you, shoulders hunched to keep you blocked in.

“Hurry up and get ‘em in the truck, Vincent.” The other man hisses, pushing you forward and into the chest of the one in front of you.

The push jolts you forward, the arm behind you numb with pain. A cold, heavy spark of panic lands in your stomach. You do not want to get into that truck, but two sets of hands are forcing you towards it. With a gasp you suck in a quick breath, letting it out as a piercing scream. You twist between them, as much as you can with your arm locked in place. They’re startled for just a second, but it’s all the time you need.

You kick backwards with one foot, missing the first time but connecting with something on the next try, a harsh grunt of pain echoing in your ear. You can feel him buckle slightly, the grip on your arm going slack, the relief from the pressure building in your shoulder almost makes you dizzy. Hands grab at your clothing, trying to keep you under control, but you fight against their hold, letting out another breathless scream. Swaying on your feet, you lunge to the side, towards the dark, open expanse of pavement, knowing that all it would take is a few seconds to make it back into sight of the store.

When you find yourself on your back, blinking up at the sky and a worried, uncannily lifeless face hovering over you, it doesn’t register at first how you got there. Your vision spins and slowly a throbbing pain starts up in your head. The man above you pats your face, making low whines under his breath, and you weakly bat his hands away.

“All this fuckin’ trouble,” you hear the other man spit out, a deep anger in his voice. “I shoulda made you do this shit yourself, Vincent.”

[foreveralwaysanauthor]

Christmas Eve Miracle

Christmas Season Prompts Day 7

December 14th – Snowed In ☃️

Pairing – Mack and Brady

(I’m sorry I’m late! I had no time yesterday or today to write this out and had to make do on short time, but I hope everything pans out alright. Mack’s behavior is based on my sister, Honey, who is gonna kill me for even saying she inspired something I wrote, but I’m tired and don’t give a flying fladoodle what she says rn)

I believe we shall start this story the same way many of these begin.

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, really, it was only 6:43, but given the sun had already set, it was pretty dark. Snow fell from the sky in thick flakes, floating up over the windshield of Brady’s rental car, a 2017 Rogue. Mack and Brady were on their way through the town of Tilton, New Hampshire to Mack’s Uncle’s house on the edge of Lake Winnisquam in Sanbornton. A week prior, the couple had left their home in San Clemente, California, boarded a plane in Santa Ana, landed in the Manchester-Boston Regional Airport and were staying in a hotel in Concord.

The GPS told them that the ride from the hotel to Mack’s Uncle’s house would only be about a half hour, but the GPS hadn’t accounted for black ice, thick snow, and a very pregnant and very irritable Mack who was a week away from her due date of December 31st and didn’t feel like going out in the snow. Mack had been excited to visit with her relatives, but, as it was a very snowy Christmas Eve, she found herself not wanting to leave the safety of the hotel room.

The idea of Brady driving on snowy roads was torture on Mack. At least she knew how to handle slippery, icy roads. The only knowledge Brady had of handling wet roads was when it rained in California, he had no prior experience on roads splotched with sheets of black ice, a substance nearly invisible to the human eye.

As Mack took another deep breath to calm herself, Brady glanced at her in concern. “Are you alright, honey?”

Mack nodded, leaning her head against the cool window. “I just want to get to the house party and get it over with. We shouldn’t have left the hotel with the roads this bad.”

“Well, if it means anything, the GPS says we’re only about six minutes away,” Brady claimed, watching a car go by. They were in, what Brady assumed, the center of Tilton, but he couldn’t be sure due to how few people dared to go out in the middle of the storm.

“The GPS doesn’t count for me telling you to slow down because of ice.” Hearing that, Brady eased his foot back onto the brake pedal, watching his speedometer go from twenty-five to almost fifteen. “Thank you,” Mack mumbled from the passenger seat.

“Of course,” Brady said softly, turning on the Mozart CD they had brought with them. Mack had insisted on bringing it as not only did it calm her and the baby down, she had read that classical music was great for babies and small children to listen to as it would aid in their mental growth. Once the music started, Mack relaxed into her seat and closed her eyes, trying to keep calm while Brady drove. Brady would glance occasionally at Mack just to make sure she was doing alright, but after a while, he remained focused on the road, the timer on the GPS showing them getting closer by the minute.

“Brady,” Mack said softly, sitting up as best she could, “pull over.”

Brady watched his wife with concern as he kept going down the road. “Why? Are you alright?”

“Just pull over!” Mack insisted, one hand on her stomach and the other on the handle of the door.

Without another thought, Brady threw the blinker on and pulled to the side of the road, a streetlight and a road sign for a nearby lodge being the only things allowing light into the vehicle. As the car was parked, Mack had unbuckled her seatbelt, opened her door and stepped out, leaning her top half into the car and lightly touching where she had been sitting.

“Mack, what’s wrong?” Brady asked, unbuckling himself and preparing to jump out of the car.

Mack’s expression was enough to trigger a reaction in Brady, but her words caused him to start acting. “I think my water broke.”

Brady reached for his phone, his immediate reaction being to call the hospital, but Mack stopped him. “Brady, we can reach the hospital just fine, I don’t need an ambulance. Just let me get back in and we’ll go. We’ve got this.”

Brady seemed to relax a small bit as Mack’s calm attitude seemed to radiate into him as well. “Okay. Okay. We can do this.”

Mack slid herself into the car once more and shut the door. Brady re-buckled himself and shifted the car back into Drive. As he pushed the gas pedal, however, both of them realized he had stopped the car on a patch of ice. They wouldn’t be going anywhere unless Brady tried to get out and push, but even that might not help unless Mack could get behind the wheel to steer the car, which she couldn’t as her bump prevented her from sitting at the wheel.

Brady huffed in agitation before pulling his phone out once more, dialing Mack’s Uncle’s number. “Hey,” Brady said as Mack’s Uncle answered. “I know the party started already, but Mack and I are still in Tilton. I think we’re stopped by a digital marketing place, but I’m not sure. The sign’s covered in snow... Well, we’re stuck on ice and her water just broke.” A moment of silence passed before Brady screeched anxiously into the phone, “YES, the baby’s coming! What else could that mean?!”

Mack yanked the phone from Brady’s hands and talked with her uncle for a minute. “We’re going to try to find a hotel or something to stay in because I am not giving birth in some rental car in the cold when I could at least have a couch or something… Yeah, take your time. Keep the party going before you come out; I don’t want to ruin the night for you guys. I’ll probably still be in labor. Just call Brady when you get here, okay?... If anything happens, we’ll call... Love you too, bye.”

Brady climbed out of the car after Mack handed him his phone back, telling Mack to stay there and he would go find somewhere for them to stay. Mack watched as he ran off into the cold, disappearing into the white haze that consumed the area. She turned the key backwards until it clicked off into radio only mode so the car wouldn’t lose any gas just sitting there, turning the CD back on and turning it up so she could try to relax. Minutes passed and the song changed more than once before Brady appeared, helping her out of the car and over to a nearby campground that had agreed to let them stay in one of the cabins.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two and a half hours went by. Anxiety was high. Crying and worried comments had come from mostly Brady by that point, but Mack still hadn’t given birth and the relatives they had called, still hadn’t showed up. Thankfully, one of the people who owned the campground, was also a mother of five and could easily handle Mack giving birth. The woman was able to help Mack with all necessary things, except for the one thing almost every mother needed: epidural.

By the time the fifth hour rolled around, Mack had begun pushing. Brady had been told by Mack to stay in the living room so he could see if their relatives had shown up yet, but all he could see was snow and the occasional headlight from those brave few that dared to go out. Snow had mounted up and, from what Brady could see, it was maybe up to eight inches, collectively.

Mack’s screams of pain echoed through the small cabin, making Brady flinch. He hated hearing her in pain, but she had told him to leave the room as his anxiety was making her more and more angry at him. He had seen the look in her eyes and had feared for his life, so he chose to listen to her and wait in the other room. The power had gone out about twenty minutes ago as the radio told them a big rig had jackknifed and taken out a few power lines just a little bit further down than where Mack and Brady had left the car.

A few minutes later, Mack’s screams were replaced by a small voice crying and Brady had dropped everything he’d been holding onto the couch and dashed for the bedroom, seeing the owner woman place the little one into a towel and rest it on Mack’s chest.

She looked up at the two of them as Brady sat behind Mack and looked over her and their new baby. “Congratulations, darlings. She’s beautiful.”

“She?” the parents echoed.

The woman glanced at them before realization dawned on her face. “You didn’t know the gender, did you?”

“No,” Mack whispered, her voice sounding scratchy and hoarse. “We wanted to be surprised.”

Brady smiled as the baby girl gurgled in her little towel. “I told you it was going to be my princess.”

Mack smiled dazedly up at Brady before watching her little girl again. “You did. Well, king of the castle, what are you naming our princess?”

Brady’s smile broadened as he spoke, “I know we already said Kaya would be her middle name if our baby was a girl, but for the first name, I like the idea of mixing our parents names. So, Makaela is your mom and Luana is mine so… how about Makana?”

“Makana…” Mack said softly as she took in the fact that she had brought this wonderful little human into their lives. “Makana Kaya Birch. I like that.”

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

Blue Skies (Winteriron)

Link to chapter 2, chapter 3

Chapter 1

Blood.  So, so much of it.  Too much.  The wadded up kitchen towel he’d pressed against the wound has turned dark crimson with it, and it still continues to flow, soaking into the already saturated fabric, coating his fingers a sickeningly bright red…

 “Fuck!”

 This shouldn’t have happened.  This should never have happened!  

It was their first romantic getaway – a mini vacation for just the two of them.  A chance to unwind, to explore, to connect in all the ways they’ve been unable to at home.  To get away from the hectic grind of New York, from the ubiquitous stress and dangers of their daily lives as Avengers, from the all-too-curious (and at times judgmental) looks of their teammates. No stress, no work, no distractions – just him and Tony.  It should have been the best weekend of their lives.  

 Instead, here Tony is, bleeding out on the pristine tiled floor of their rented beachside bungalow. All because Bucky couldn’t get his fucking head under control.  

 A cold trembling hand closes over Bucky’s blood-stained one, startling him out of his self-flagellating thoughts.

  “My f… fault,” Tony insists, not for the first time since this whole mess began, since Bucky, terrified out of his mind, guided him, gasping, down to the floor.  “Sta…startled you.”  

 Only Tony’s breaths are becoming more and more labored with each passing second and his face has lost all of its color and the damn blood won’t stop flowing…

 “Shut up!” Bucky growls, fear warring with anger in his heart – anger at himself, at this stupid bungalow in the middle of nowhere with the closest hospital a good half hour drive away, at the goddamn thunderstorm that rolled through the area overnight, knocking down trees and power lines and triggering his flashback, at the fact that it’s the middle of the night and the repair crews haven’t been out yet and the majority of roads are probably flooded or blocked, and Tony is dying, and…

 “Shut up!” he repeats, pressing his hands harder onto the wound.

 Tony gasps in pain, slams his eyes shut, the back of his head thumping on the kitchen cabinet he’s propped up against.  “S-savage,” he pants out, one eye opening a slit to give Bucky a weak reproachful glare before sliding shut once more.  

 Bucky grits his teeth, biting down on a useless “sorry”.  Glances over his shoulder at the kitchen window, the inky blackness outside punctuated by the slowly abating nocturne of howling wind and pounding rain.   It’s still pretty bad out there, he knows, but they’re gonna have to take their chances. There are simply no other options.

 “Can you make it to the car?” he asks, gentle now as he pulls his flesh hand away from Tony’s stomach to cup his cheek, smearing blood on the pale skin.

 Tony leans slightly into the touch, the lines of pain crisscrossing his forehead smoothing out a bit as he seems to draw comfort from it, however small.  Opens his eyes once more, blinking blearily at the rain-blotted window at Bucky’s back.  

“S’bad out there,” he points out unnecessarily, his words slurring together so much that Bucky wants to just haul him up as is, ceremony be damned, and run for the car.  But he can’t do that, he can’t do that – no matter how terrified he is.  Because Tony’s too fragile right now, too hurt.  And Bucky’ll be damned if he causes him any more pain.

 “We’re gonna have to risk it,” he says instead, lowering his head to capture Tony’s pain-blurred gaze. Vows, making sure to convey his message loud and clear, “I ain’t letting you die.”

 The corner of Tony’s mouth twitches, those whiskey brown eyes Bucky’s grown to love so much crinkling with amused fondness.  He lets his head fall forward, his cold, sweat-dotted forehead thumping weakly against Bucky’s own.  Breathes, fast and shallow, taking comfort from their contact as he prepares himself for the inevitable pain.

 “Lead on… MacDuff,” he huffs out finally, reaching out to grasp Bucky’s shoulder to lever himself up.

 Bucky’s gentle, as much as he can be, but it’s not enough, it’s not nearly enough.  And he is helpless to do anything as he feels Tony’s body tremble more and more in his grip with each hurried step they take, as he listens to Tony’s harsh, wheezed out breaths and the grunts of pain the man can’t quite suppress.  And Bucky has to fight the urge to slam his fist into the nearest weight-bearing wall, over and over, until every goddamn bone in there is broken irreparably so his goddamn fingers can never handle another knife, ever again.

 “S-stop… th…thinking so… h-hard,” Tony pants out, sagging heavily against him as they stop beside the car long enough for Bucky to pull the passenger side door open.  “I a..already t-told you…”

 “Not my fault, I know,” Bucky repeats obediently, helping settle Tony on the seat.  But his voice is just a bit too strained, and he avoids Tony’s eyes just a bit too deliberately, and Tony knows him just a bit too well.  So he’s not surprised when Tony reaches for him, fisting the front of his shirt in his trembling blood-stained hand.

 “S-say it like you mean it… Buttercup,” he jokes, but there’s no trace of humor in the warm pain-dulled gaze. Nothing but wistful understanding and calm, sorrowful acceptance.  

 And, damned, if it doesn’t make Bucky’s fear rise up another notch.

 He grits his teeth against the ever-expanding ice-cold feeling inside his chest that makes his heart stutter and stop like a scared, cornered rabbit.  Forces his suddenly numb fingers to move as he stretches the safety belt across Tony’s injured midsection, careful to avoid the still-bleeding wound. Moves to pull away.  

 “Bucky?” Tony’s fingers clench harder around his shirt, keeping him in place.  

 He closes his eyes briefly, sucks in a long, shaky breath.  “We gotta get going, doll,” he tries, stubbornly keeping his gaze locked on the seatbelt, on the section of it that borders the wound.  Swallows down a fresh wave of fear as he watches the blood slowly begin to seep into the edge of the fabric.  “Th’ roads are bad, like you said.  We gotta… I gotta hurry.”

 Tony doesn’t release him, though.  Yanks impatiently on Bucky’s shirt instead, forcing him to look up

 “Don’t run,” he whispers, his voice barely audible now but there’s a feverish kind of intensity in his eyes that pins Bucky in place.  “If I don’t… if I d…die… promise me you’ll go… home… Promise y…you won’t… run.”

 Bucky feels his throat close up.  “Tony…”

 “Promise!” Tony’s fingers are trembling with the effort of maintaining their grip.

 Bucky wants to tell him to shut up, wants to rip his shirt out of Tony’s feeble grasp, get behind the wheel and drive.  Because he doesn’t even want to think about the possibility of Tony dying.  Can’t consider it.  Won’t! Because … home? Home is Tony.  And if Tony’s not there, where does he go then? Where can he go?

But Tony’s looking at him with those big pleading eyes, and Bucky never has been able to deny him.

 “I promise,” he relents gruffly, forcing himself not to look away from Tony’s intense, scrutinizing gaze. “Can we go now?”

 Tony nods, relief flooding his features.  Lets his hand fall away.  Sags exhausted against the seat, eyes slipping shut.

 Bucky wastes no more time.

 ***

 Twenty-two miles. That’s how far he manages to get before he finds the road ahead blocked completely by a fallen tree and he sees no way to get around it.  There was a fork in the road they passed some twenty minutes ago, and he considers for a moment turning the car around to backtrack there in the hopes of finding a different way.  But then he looks out at the rain still pounding on their windows, and he remembers how badly flooded that section of the road was, how hard it was to get through twenty minutes ago, how it must be impossible now…

 No, going back is not an option.

 Beside him Tony sits silent and still, slumped awkwardly against the passenger door, his eyes closed, his face – a terrifying deathlike gray.  He’s alive, Bucky knows that much.  Can hear the reassuring thump-thump-thump of his heart.  But it’s faint, getting fainter with each passing second it seems, and…

 Bucky looks past the fallen tree trunk at the road sign partially illuminated by the rain-scattered light of the headlights, at the big “H” on it and the washed out number of miles underneath they still have left to go.  Looks back at Tony, at the shallow rise and fall of his chest, at the pale hand lying limply across his blood-soaked midsection.  

 There’s a sudden cracking noise as the steering wheel he’s been gripping shatters under the impossible pressure, the sound snapping him into action.  And then he’s moving.  Throwing open his door with enough force to make the window explode as from a bullet strike. Jogging around to Tony’s side.

 “We’re gonna have to get a little wet here, doll,” he warns, as he opens the passenger side door and leans in to undo the seatbelt.  

Tony’s eyelashes flutter weakly when Bucky slides his arms under him, peel open a slit.  “Bucky?”  

 His voice sounds so small, so thin, so confused that all Bucky wants to do is hug him as tight as he can, to shield him from the world itself and from the likes of Bucky in it – those who would hurt him, those who would cause him pain.

 “It’s me, doll,” he manages, his throat impossibly tight as he pulls Tony toward him, hoisting him up carefully into his arms.  “I’m getting you to the hospital.”

 Tony nods, trusting, his head lolling feebly against Bucky’s shoulder.  Buries his face in the side of Bucky’s neck.  “Love you,” he murmurs – a faint huff of a breath against Bucky’s skin. “Shou...sh’lda… told’ya… soon’r.”

 Bucky squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden acid-like burn.  Sucks in a breath, shaky and sharp like cut glass.

 “I love you, too, Tony,” he whispers, blinking away moisture that has nothing to do with the rain that pelts down on both of them.  Glares at the damn sign up ahead, tightening his hold on his precious cargo as much as he dares.  “I love you, too.”  

 And then he runs.

[bagog]

Queen, Pawn, Rook

For my follower milestone giveaway, @sunwisecircles won the grand prize of a 10k story! THEN sunwisecircles gifted part of the story to @humblydefiant and it ended up being 14k so there’s that. You should probably read it on AO3 with chapter breaks and stuff.

But for the masochists, here it is:

++

Nighttime made the city seem like it made sense, even for just a little while. The buildings became grids of lights, the streets were glowing arteries. Everything was easily divvied up into light and dark: the shop windows, the car headlights, the skyscrapers. Even the people: walk the streets long enough one night and you get to see all kinds of people, but they could basically be divided into who was walking like they owned the night and who was walking like the night owned them.

At the same time, the darkness brought out a grime that the sun outshone. The steam seeping out of a manhole cover, the garbage pooling against the curb. Even the people—no matter how they walked—were all oily shadows passing from streetlight to streetlight, the sounds of the city their heartbeat.

I wasn’t one to talk, after all, I didn’t wake up, most days, until the sun went down, my cat stomping on my face to get herself fed. She reminded me I wasn’t alone, but she couldn’t do a very good job of it. Probably too much to expect from a cat, anyhow. I didn’t hate the city, not exactly. I just couldn’t decide if it was too small and suffocating or too big and… suffocating.

“Last call, Shepard.” Joker limped up to me behind the bar, holding my favorite whiskey. Well, second favorite. Had a hard time stomaching the really good stuff since he left. I held out two fingers and pushed my glass forward. Joker filled it with one finger and slid it back. “You’re walking home, right?”

“Course I am,” I was slurring and I knew it. Joker just nodded. I’d shut down the Normandy again, and I didn’t know which was bigger, my bar-tab or my headache.  Joker had the lights off and the door locked behind me almost as soon as I got to the street. I was alone, again. I had just eight blocks to walk before I got to my apartment, and it was starting to rain. I pulled up the collar on my coat and leveled my hat over my brow. Rain ruined the illusion of the night, smeared all the organized little boxes of light into one big bright blob as sheets of rain slid down the streets and alleys. He had always preferred the sound of rain on the city streets while I preferred the street sounding like itself.

A car pulled up to the curb behind me and the engine was turned off.   I was drunk, I was pitying myself, but it wasn’t hard to recognize I was being tailed. Unfortunately, knowing I was being tailed and being able to lose the tail were two separate things, tonight.

There was a squeal of tires and a jet-black car raced up to me, two big men getting out, one of them bagging my head and the other grabbing my arms behind my back, shoving me into the back of the car. I cussed out the men pushing me in, but they didn’t make a sound, and I quickly gave up.

My head was swimming and I couldn’t see, but I kept track of the turns as best as I could—left up 49th, right down Masonic Lodge Blvd… after a while it became clear where I was being taken.

The Cronos Manor. The Illusive Man.

++

By the time the bag was pulled off my head, I was sat across from the Illusive Man, separated by a heavy mahogany desk. The room was dimly lit, goons hiding in the corners, only visible from their glittering teeth, sneering at me from the dark. The Illusive Man sat casually in his desk chair, one leg crossed over the other, leaning back and enjoying a cigarette.

“I trust this isn’t a social visit.” No use in drawing this out. I didn’t know what a man like the Illusive Man would want with me and it was time to find out.

“On the contrary, Shepard. Last time I saw you was, what? Years ago.”

“I remember. First time in your lovely home, though. That crown moulding really is something,” I slurred.

“I have a job for you. One I think you’ll be interested in. I know you get sick of chasing around unfaithful spouses. How about a change of pace?”

“I’m a man of habit, what makes you think I’m looking for something new?”

“No need to play coy, Shepard. The job is simple,” said the Illusive Man, smoke curling from his mouth. “My daughter, Miranda, has been keeping strange company, lately.”

“Seems to me you’re in the business of strange company.” There was a model of the city on his desk: plans for future developments. One area in particular was highlighted, a new model building amidst the old city.

“Too true, and while it’s my business to immerse myself in the peculiarities and the dregs of our city, I’ve always kept a barrier between my work life and my family.” There was the hint of a smile in his voice. I flicked my eyes to the desk, where the folded newspaper concealed the barrel of his revolver. “Her latest excursions, I fear, are beginning to blur that line.”

“You’re hiring a private eye to spy on your own daughter,” I scoffed. “Can’t imagine why she’d ever want to get away.”

“You’ve heard enough about me to know that I am not a man to take chances where the things he cares about are concerned. My daughter’s choices are her own, having me as a father is a curse and a blessing.” In the light of the desk lamp, his eyes shimmered like two hematite points catching the light. “Find out who my daughter is spending her time with. Find out who I need to bless. Find out who I need to curse.”

He held my gaze, and with practiced fingers, removed a cigarette from its golden case and lit the tip with the glowing stub still between his lips.

“We never discussed my fee—“

“No, we didn’t. And we won’t. I’ll pay double your standard fee and throw in a little extra.” He leveled his eyes at me. “I know you’re on hard times.”

So much for out-pricing the old bastard. I’d never met her, but a dame like Miranda wouldn’t be easy to pin down. Daughters of rich men: always twice as crafty as their dads and better at covering up their messes with money. But unfortunately, he was right.

“Alright, I’ll do it. But first you’re going to be straight with me. Why me?”

He grinned like a tiger eyeing a meal.

“I need a man who won’t be… distracted on the job. And besides, I’ve always had an affinity for fixing broken things, Shepard.”

Some nerve. But I guess when you have five goons ready to pummel me into the ground and one of the biggest crime empires in the city behind you, you’ve earned the nerve.

++

‘Distracting’ was one word to describe Miranda Lawson. Tall, more curves than she had visible pores, dark hair left to hang free down past her shoulders. She looked nothing like her father, with warm eyes and a tall frame. The only thing she wore of her father’s was his domineering sneer, and in the way she moved you could see she had every ounce of her father’s intimidating presence.

She just hid it under the glitz and glam. In a word, she was perfect. Not my type, but watching her through the lens of my camera was like photographing an art exhibit. She didn’t have a bad angle, and she knew it, kept her back to the wall.

Tailing her had been hard for exactly that reason. Once or twice on the first day alone I could’ve sworn she made me. Hell, for all I knew, she had and was playing it that cool. I wouldn’t put it past her. This took more attention than my usual infidelity cases, would pay to lay off the booze for a while.

The money the Illusive Man was going to pay me could buy a lot of booze, or could be a catalyst to start a new life. But what was the point if he wasn’t here?

It was a hot, dark night when I finally tailed her to the Collector Club. Got to admit, the old man had good instincts about his daughter. The Collector Club was about the seediest club in the city: all shimmering gold and finery that attracted any mobster or crimeboss in 5 postal codes. Like moths hovering around an electric light, eating their steaks and laughing about ‘the business’. Had been a while since I’d set foot in the place—I’d been on the wrong end of too many of the regulars.

Miranda walked in like she owned the place, greeted at the door with a convivial “Miss Lawson!” by the doorman who took her coat. It wasn’t exactly strange to find a lady like Miranda at the Collector Club—half the patrons didn’t know the other half were organized crime—but Miranda didn’t seem like the kind to be fattening up at the same trough as some of the naïve patrons of the club.

Her week so far had been a standard socialite affair: one social engagement after another. Over to an expensive restaurant for lunch, off to some mansion on the west end for the afternoon, then over to some night-club or other before returning home at precisely midnight. She was punctual, meticulous, leaving on the hour for whatever she was doing. She was probably the sort of lady who had no trouble filling the silence when things got dull.

I couldn’t risk trailing her into the club, so it was time to wait. I hated stakeouts—plenty of time to get lonely, or drunk. It was almost 3am by the time Miranda walked out of the club, arm in arm with a man. This was uncharacteristic. He was dressed to the nines, black suit and black tie, and he led her to her car as the valet pulled up in it. Then he got in the backseat with her.

I tailed the car with my headlights off—drivers for VIPs like Miranda would be looking out for being followed. I seemed to track them all over the city, up one street and down another. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were leading me on. But finally, the car pulled up to the west side docks and came to a stop. The man from the club stepped out of the car—now dressed in a brown jacket and tan slacks—and leaned back into the window. For a kiss? For a final instruction? I only had my imagination to go on. He was off into the shadows in no time, and Miranda’s car peeled away. For a moment, I thought about following the man on foot, but I could barely tell where he’d gotten to, already.

Miranda got home, safe and sound, by the stroke of 4am. It still didn’t feel like there was a case here—nothing more than a little of the usual rich-girl escapades. But with the pressure the Illusive Man was putting on me, I’d need to get to the bottom of something. Maybe it was time to pull in a few favors.

++

The Collector Club was a glittering, three story monstrosity of a nightclub. All the glitz and glam the upper-crust could pour into one old building, looking like a gem in the dung heap of the rest of the block—boarded shop windows and crumbling brownstones.

At the same time, I knew—like anyone who submerged his hands in the filth of this city—that the Collector Club was the shadiest establishment in town. The doorman took my coat at the door, which only served to highlight how shabby I looked in the old tweed dinner jacket and the water-stained hat I wore.

Inside, the club had a soft glow to it—crystal chandeliers and gold fixtures hung over a rich mahogany carpet. It was thick under my shoes like red moss, and the tinkling of forks on plates along with the laughter and conversation of the patrons were muffled by a number of heavy curtains partitioning off the space into dark, intimate little islands where the city’s most successful mobsters dined like kings. Up above it all, at the top of a winding staircase with mother-of-pearl handrails, the window of the owner’s office looked out on the dining floor, the only vantage point that could see into every dark corner. The window was blocked, as it always had been when the job brought me here, by its own thick set of curtains.

No one knew who owned the club, other than by his moniker: “The Sovereign”. He maintained the club as neutral ground from all the underground business in the city. Reapers and Cerberus both walked up and down the makeshift aisles, the restaurant strangely segregated by the two most successful of the city’s gangs. The man himself was something of a recluse. I’d never met anyone who’d ever laid eyes on him.

But I wasn’t looking for the Sovereign tonight, but for someone a little closer to the pavement of the city’s secrets. And there she was, sitting as far from the Cerberus side of the room as possible and surrounded by a posse of muscleheads.

“Shepard,” she called out to me over the brim of her bourbon glass.

“Aria.” I was surprised she could tear her eyes away from the spectacle in front of her, kneeling on the table was one of the Collector Club’s famously limber dancers, performing in what looked like the scanty remnants of one of the clubs glittering chandeliers. Aria herself was dressed more modestly, a white tuxedo jacket and blue bow-tie, her hair pulled back away from her face and that shrewd look in her eyes. She didn’t smile often, and when she did, it was the smile of a shark.

“Have a seat,” she nodded and one of the meatheads stood up, freeing a spot near Aria. He walked over and pulled the curtain closed, shutting out the rest of the nightclub. “Have a drink. Have a look.”

“Mind if I smoke?” I asked, sitting down. The dancer was gyrating to her own music, and I was surprised Aria hadn’t sent her away.

“By all means,” she snapped and one of the thugs with whiskey eyes leaned over with a lighter, lighting the tip of my cigarette, his slender fingers making quick work of the mechanism. “I know you like them dark and dreamy,” Aria narrowed her eyes, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at her lips. She nodded to the thug who had just lit my cigarette, my eyes must have lingered on him just a moment too long. “I know you’ve always had a thing for brown eyes.”

“Didn’t expect to find you here,” I said, ignoring the call-out. “Doesn’t Omega have some business on south side, tonight?”

“Since I took over the Blue Suns, the Blood Pack, and the Eclipse, I’ve acquired interests all over the city.” She held her drink up to the dancers’ lips and let her take a sip, a bead of bourbon running down her chin. “Besides, Omega is undergoing renovations. Which you knew, or you wouldn’t be here. Tell me what it is you want, Shepard.”

“Funny you should mention Omega.” The Queen of Omega kept her eyes on the dancer, “I’m calling in that favor.” That got her attention.

“John Shepard, PI, calling in a favor I regret owing to you. What’s the matter, Shepard? Are you that broke or in that deep?”

“Just looking for some answers.”

“You’re not even the first private dick I’ve entertained this week,” she scoffed. “You’re all the same, in the end.”

That was a surprise.

“Who?”

“Is that your question, Shepard?”

“Do I only get one?” I tapped my cigarette over the ash tray and tried to size up the muscle. Three of them: the muscle mountain whose seat I took, Mr. Beautiful, and a wily looking man with a long moustache. “I would’ve thought our last meeting at Omega was worth a little more than one question.”

Aria grunted and took her time with the next drink. “An old friend of yours. Anderson. ‘David’ Anderson I think.”

“Anderson was here?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” I hadn’t seen Anderson in a long time, the idea that he’d been on a trail that led to Aria was unsettling. The only reason to seek Aria out is if you were looking for information you didn’t want the Reapers or Cerberus to know you were getting. “Is this the part where you ask me about Jacob, too?”

“Jacob who? What did Anderson want with him?”

“Jacob Taylor. A newcomer to the club. Everybody who bothers to walk through the door at the Collector Club is a body worth knowing, but nobody knew anything about Jacob before a few weeks ago.” She reached out a hand and motioned for the table-dancer to spin around. She immediately obliged.

“Some new-money upstart?”

“No. I would’ve heard about that. Same if he was a lieutenant rising in one of the city’s… inelegant mafias.” She scowled at the word. Despite being the Queen of Omega, the Reapers and Cerberus always managed to stay a step or two ahead of Aria. It galled her, but it was a rare day she’d let it show.

“So he’s not new-money and he’s not working for Cerberus—“

“Oh I wouldn’t say he’s completely free of the stink of the Illusive Man’s little operation.” She nodded and Mr. Beautiful stood up to check around the corner of the curtain. “He came in with Miranda Lawson, after all. But that’s who you’re really interested in, isn’t it, Shepard?”

“What makes you think that?”

Aria laughed: a cruel sound.

“Because that’s what Anderson was after, too. He didn’t want to admit it any more than you do, but you ex-cops are all the same.”

“Anderson used to say ‘there’s always a dame at the center of the trouble,’” I remembered aloud.

“And where else should they be? Good girls don’t rule the world, Shepard, and neither do the bad men. We just let them think they do.”

“What’s Miranda doing with—“

Suddenly, there was a crash on the other side of the curtain, the sound of a fist connecting with a jaw, then a man was hurtling through the curtain and bowled over Mr. Beautiful before the brute could react. Aria snapped and the dancer ran, the two other brutes reaching for the pieces inside their suit jackets. The laughing patrons at the nearest tables turned as well, drawing derringers from evening clutch purses and switch blades from tuxedo pants. They formed a wall around Aria.

I scrambled up from my seat and ducked under the curtain, just in time to see a man in tan slacks dashing through the befuddled crowd and out the door. I gave chase.

Out on the street, I had already lost him, but I picked a direction and started running. But I was too late.

++

I tailed Miranda again the next night on foot, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. I’d been sitting on the cold sidewalk waiting for what felt like hours when I heard it:

It was the click of another camera, coming from a dark corner.

I recognized that silhouette before I knew I recognized it. Ran like an army man, all right angles in the arms and legs, and booking it like the devil was chasing him. But it was no devil, just me, running before I realized I was running. It was a coin-flip which was burning more, my legs or my lungs. The man I was chasing didn’t seem to be slowing down, and for the first time since I got out of the force, I regretted swapping out my morning calisthenics for a finger of whiskey and a raw egg.

He ducked into an alley—he knew the streets as well as I did—making for the twisting labyrinth that was the electrical sub-station on Carter and Comanche. There was no time to pat myself on the back for keeping pace, the alley was so dark, I was chasing the sound of his shoes on the pavement. The clack-clack-clack of those pristine shoes in the darkness, then: a ruckus up ahead. Before I knew it my foot connected with an overturned crate, laid me flat on the stinking ground. My hands were scuffed and my knees would be bleeding under some torn slacks, but that wasn’t enough to make me quit. Up ahead, I saw the shape of him up ahead at the far end of the alley—standing stock still. Couldn’t tell if he was looking back at me or looking ahead, but god, my imagination ran away with me.

With a squeak of my shoes and a grunt, I took off after him again. He ran, too. Probably regretting stopping to check on me, always was a softie. I was close enough to grab at the corner of his coat—then he leapt left around the corner and let me careen into a fence I hadn’t seen coming. There was a single street lamp up ahead, but didn’t cast much light beyond the little circle on the ground, and Kaidan was running straight for it. I needed a different plan.

Slipping off my shoes, I gave chase again, hugging the wall and stepping silently. He stopped at the edge of the light, even as a silhouette, I could tell he was breathing hard, pulling at the air with his shoulders. It reminded me to control my own heavy breathing. Closed my coat, raised the collar around my face. Must’ve thought I’d stopped chasing him after that second crash. If I weren’t me, I’d have assumed I quit chasing, too. That was the John Shepard he knew.

Just as he turned to go on his way, I leapt out of the darkness, grabbing at his coat. He pivoted and we both tumbled into the light from the street lamp, struggled to get to our feet. And there he was, sure as the day, Kaidan Alenko, amber eyes ablaze.

“Kaidan,” I held up my hands, I wasn’t going to win this fight, I didn’t want to win this fight.

Pow. Quick as that, Kaidan laid a fist into my face, hard enough where I had to stagger backwards. But Kaidan wasn’t done with me, grabbed my lapels and shoved me against the streetlight post. Soon as I felt the smart in my cheek from his fist, Kaidan’s lips met mine. Pow. It was electric, our chests heaving from the run and the taste of whiskey on his tongue, my loose hat tumbled off my head and my arms pulled at Kaidan’s coat.

“John Shepard,” he breathed, pulling back. “You son of a bitch. I thought I told you I never wanted to see you again.” I leaned in for another kiss, just captured Kaidan’s lips, just caught the air of that cheap after-shave, then he was pulling away. “No, that was a mistake.” But I could see the look in his eyes, and I took his shoulders and kissed him again, nothing but the sounds of the street bearing witness to the least likely reunion.

“I missed you,” I whispered against his lips when we pulled away.

“Maybe you even did,” he pulled back, straightened his back and squared his shoulders. He was looking at me with that old Kaidan gaze that seemed to penetrate straight through my skin. “You look good.” He said, as if he was surprised.

“So do you.”

“Hm.” He reached into his jacket and removed a cigarette, lit a match on his thumbnail. I got out a cigarette myself, but couldn’t find my lighter as I patted my pockets. Kaidan hesitated a moment, then lit a second match, held it close to his body to keep it out of the draft up the street, I leaned in and lit the tip. I could smell his cologne. “Took me a second to realize it was you chasing me.”

“I knew it was you right away,” I puffed on the cigarette, tapped the ash into the air.

“And I didn’t think this case could get any…” He chose the next word like he was plucking a coal out of a fire. “Stranger.”

I almost said it, almost said ‘I wish every day to see you again.’ But I kept my cool, the cigarette helped, something to keep my mouth busy so it couldn’t go running off without me. Kaidan cut an impressive figure—blue suit, as always, but darker these days, keeping up with the fashion of the times. He stood straighter these days, too. Looked bigger, too, more muscle bulk under the linen shirt, thighs pulling the pleat of his slacks flat. I cleared my throat.

“What are you doing here?” The smoke was making me feel warmer, or maybe it was being this close to Kaidan again. “Who hired you? Why would you be following Miranda Lawson?”

Kaidan’s mouth turned into a hard line, his eyes squinting at me.

“What makes you think I’m in any mood to share anything with you, Shepard?”

“Simple,” I patted the notebook I’d been keeping in my coat. “I have information you want, you have information I want. We can help each other.”

He seemed to think for a long time, then finally nodded.

“You get to go first on that one.” He stooped to pick up my hat, set it back on my head, maybe he was even a little affectionate about how he did it. Maybe I was still light-headed from the chase and was filling my lungs with smoke instead of air.

“Fair’s fair, you’re not the one who got socked in the jaw.”

“You gonna lecture me about fair, Shepard?”

He had me dead to rights there, I winced and pulled a drag off the cigarette. You didn’t discuss your case with anyone, but Kaidan wasn’t just anyone.

“Tailing Miranda Lawson, same as you, I’ll bet,” I supplied, Kaidan nodded. “As for the rest of it, I think we better get off the street, don’t you?” Kaidan nodded again.

“We can go back to my office, Penny’ll be gone for the night, it’ll be just us.” I swallowed hard at that: so this is what it was like to be given a chance. He looked down at my shoeless feet, “We better find your shoes.”

We got my shoes and traced our way back to Kaidan’s car. The drive to his office didn’t take too long, and we sat in silence the whole time. It was like the bad-old-times all over again: penned in with a Kaidan who couldn’t stand being around me, when all I wanted was to be with him. Well, if that’s all I’d wanted, then maybe I wouldn’t have made so many bad choices.

We parked on the street, and it was a short walk to the little brownstone Kaidan maintained as an office. He took the stairs two at a time, and I trailed behind, already wishing I had another cigarette to keep me busy.

As we walked down the hall, I saw a lamp on inside, the letters on the door stood out in stark relief:

ALLIANCE PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS KAIDAN ALENKO * DAVID ANDERSON

Another name to make me freeze in my tracks. I hadn’t thought this through, I was crazy to have come here.

“Kaidan, wait.” I stopped stock still in the middle of the hallway. “I don’t think I’m ready to see him yet. I just… I’m sorry.”

“Well you won’t have to worry about that,” he said bluntly. He unlocked the office door and held it open. “Anderson’s dead. Body turned up in the river two nights ago. Haven’t had the heart to chip his name off the door just yet.”

My shoes might as well have been glued to the floor. I couldn’t speak, felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Kaidan’s face was hard, and he simply cocked his head indicating I should get in the office, already.

“What happened?” I finally managed to stutter out. Kaidan checked down the hall after I got into the office and closed the door behind me.

“Two weeks ago, we got this case—looking into Miranda Lawson. Got the job from a man named Henry Judge. He was evasive about why he wanted Miranda tracked down: not too old to be a jilted lover, but Miranda’s not the sort who needs the money, y’know?” He pulled the knot out of his tie and unbuttoned the top buttons of his dress shirt.

“What’d you find out on Judge?”

“Not much,” Kaidan shook his head. “Almost no paper trail on him, always surrounded by body-guards. Figured the name had to be an alias, but a scrubbed one. It was like he wasn’t even trying to hide that he was using a fake name with us. The whole thing felt wrong from the start. Anderson didn’t want to take the case, I didn’t either: the kind of woman Miranda Lawson is, plus all the cloak-and-dagger from Judge…”

“But?”

“But then Anderson heard from one of his contacts over at Omega. Something about Miranda Lawson meeting with a private party there before taking it to the Collector Club. Timing seemed too perfect to be a coincidence, so we started tailing her. Best as we could anyway.”

As Kaidan spoke, I’d been staring at Anderson’s desk. It was tidy, though not as tidy as Kaidan’s, and the desk was too big for what little Anderson kept on it. I could remember him buying it, just after his retirement from the force, sanding it down and re-varnishing it. Hauling it up all those stairs and into this office…

“And Anderson?”

Kaidan sighed.

“I was spending the night outside Omega, waiting to see if Miranda was going to show. Anderson was working another angle, trying to follow Judge a little bit. He was convinced that if we figure out the connection between the two, we crack a bigger case.”

“Sounds like Anderson, always trying to bite off more than he could chew.” There were little model planes lined up on the desk, little model planes that used to be on my desk, back when I still had a desk here.

“He didn’t show up the next day, didn’t call, didn’t leave a message, nothing. Next day, body washed up. Police confirmed it was Anderson.” His voice broke a little bit, a sound I hadn’t heard from Kaidan in a long time. He sniffed, drew another cigarette from his pocket and lit it, his hand was steady as ever, even as the glow of the cigarette showed how glassy his eyes had become at the memory. I didn’t think about it, just took his hand in mine.

“I wanna find the bastards who did this.”

“Me too,” Kaidan squeezed my hand—or was it my imagination—before pulling his free. He leaned back against his desk, letting the cigarette hang off his lip as he spoke. “Been photographing Miranda every night since, but I don’t think it was her that did Anderson in.”

“You think it’s someone connected to Judge?” Kaidan nodded. “Something doesn’t add up. Guy uses a fake name, doesn’t hide it, gives you nothing to work with… then kills Anderson but keeps you on retainer?”

“He’s either up to something or thinks he’s too powerful to get caught.” Kaidan scowled, pulled his hat off and threw it onto his desk chair, his coat soon following it. He slicked back his hair into a perfect coif and I tried not to stare at the way his chest pressed against the linen of his shirt. “And they’re right, too. What’s a small-time PI gonna do about it? Not a damn thing I can do except keep following the case and hoping something shows up.”

It was my turn to share, and I told him about the Illusive Man, the deal he’d struck… and the money.

“Working for Cerberus,” Kaidan spat.

“They black-bagged me, Kaidan!”

He didn’t seem entirely satisfied, but he let the subject drop. In the dim light of his desk lamp, I was transfixed with his forearms, the way he rolled his sleeves back to his elbows. Everything I missed was standing in front of me.

“It sounds like this Jacob Taylor might be a lead.”

He poured himself a drink and offered one to me.

“No, I’m quitting drinking. At least for this case.” Kaidan seemed to look at me with new eyes, and I continued. “We can work together at this, you can find out some dirt of Jacob and I’ll see what I can get about Miranda. See if we can get to the bottom of this. It’ll be like old times.”

“No it won’t,” Kaidan sighed. But his eyes were soft when I met his gaze.

It was more than I could have hoped for in years.

++

With Kaidan on the trail of Jacob Taylor, I was free to tail the lovely Miss Lawson again. Her limo made straight for the Collector Club, just like last night, but this time, before she could get out, she motioned to the driver and they peeled out of the valet parking awning. I was following at a distance in my car, trying to keep pace without them noticing me.

But the way they were driving, they were definitely trying to lose a tail. I turned the corner only to find the limo gone, and another car parked across the roadway. There was a big brute of a man standing in my way, and another coming up on the driver’s side. Damn, this was happening. Time to turn on the ol’ Shepard charm.

“Hello, boys.” I got socked in the jaw by the brute pulling me out of my car. The two of them dragged me between them up the dark street until I saw Miranda Lawson’s limo idling at the curb.

I was muscled into the back of the car and the door was shut with a decisive ‘click’. There she was: Miranda Lawson, decked out in a shimmering white evening gown and a white mink cloak draped over one arm, she had a champagne flute in one hand and a revolver in the other. I was sitting across from her in the limo, and big as the car was, I felt distinctly claustrophobic. Not Miranda, though. Cool as a cucumber, and at home: in her element.

“Not a very good private eye, are you?” She began, red lips against the champagne glass.

“Maybe just an unorthodox one.”

“Maybe.” She seemed to seriously consider it, “So let’s pretend this is just how you wanted it to go, Mister…?”

“Shepard. Just ‘Shepard’ will do, fine.”

“Alright Shepard, so you’ve got my attention. Now tell me why I shouldn’t have those big men outside beat you to a pulp and leave you in the gutter.” She kept her pistol leveled at me with a practiced and steady hand. Was probably a better shot than me, if I’m being honest.

“Because all I want is to ask you a few questions.”

“How about I ask a few questions, and then if I’m feeling charitable, I let you ask yours?” She leaned forward, now on the edge of her seat.

“Doubt I’ll get a better offer.”

“Who hired you to follow me?”

“Your father.”

Her eyes narrowed at this and she sat back, still keeping her eye and her barrel trained on me. It didn’t look entirely like she wasn’t expecting that answer. Those red lips parted just slightly, but she kept silent for a long moment.

“Interesting.” It was odd to see her off her game, if only for an instant. Something was wrong, it was as if she wanted to ask another question but something was keeping her quiet.

“Now what’s a lady like you doing in the Collector Club night after night?”

Her smile turned acidic once again.

“Not a crime to frequent a club.”

“You know what kind of club the Collector Club is, though, don’t you?”

She seemed to bristle at this, downing the rest of her champagne in one swig and setting the glass down.

“The question is, do you know what kind club the Collector is, Shepard.” She spat my name. “You can tell my father whatever you like about my activities. I’m not hiding anything. But you are going to leave me alone,” she brandished the gun, bringing it to eye level, “Or the next time we have a little chat like this, you’ll be spitting out your teeth, understand me, Shepard?” She motioned to the man outside the car and he opened the door.

“What if I tell him about Jacob Taylor.” It was a long shot, I had no idea what the relationship Miranda had with Jacob, but it was my only chance to stay in the car and get some actual information. Miranda held up her hand and the brute stopped, she reached out herself and slammed the car door.

“What do you know about Jacob Taylor?”

“Just enough to be dangerous.”

“Jacob isn’t any concern of yours. I wouldn’t go bringing him up to… my father,” her tone lingered on the word ‘father.’ “Be careful Mr. Shepard, the deeper you dig into my father’s world—into my world—the more likely you are to find something that isn’t worth all the money my father can pay you.”

“Sometimes that’s part of the job, Miss.”

“So it’s professionalism, then?” She scoffed. “Alright, then. As a professional courtesy, let me tell you a little something about the Collector Club—it’s neutral ground for a reason, and anything that tips that balance is liable to start a war. You don’t want to be in the middle of that.”

“And you do?”

“I can handle myself, not sure you can say the same.” She eyed me disdainfully.

“Why Miss Lawson,” I tried to smile, “I believe you just made a threat.”

“I don’t need to threaten you, Shepard. Just stating the facts. I like to attract the kind of attention that doesn’t involve dead bodies in my orbit. You’re working for a dangerous man.” Her eyes narrowed, just slightly, as if she had said too much. She opened the door and set her pistol down just as the brute reached in to haul me out of the car. Next thing I knew, the brute clocked be across the jaw and I fell against the car. He grabbed me by my shoulders to spin me around and laid another one across my cheek, the sound of meat slapping meat, and I staggered back. Miranda rolled down her window, her face a beautiful mask of a gloat. “Something to remember me by, Shepard.”

The window rolled up and the car drove away. The brute gave me one more dark look before turning and getting into his own car, trailing after the limo.

++

I didn’t get too far before the same black car pulled up from the other night. This just wasn’t shaping up to be my night.

“Let’s skip the black bag this time, fellas,” I said, holding up my hands and getting into the back of the car. Without the bag on my head, I could see the opulence of Cronos Manor as they led me down marbled hallways and up an ornate spiral staircase, till at last I came to the Illusive Man’s office.

“You know,” I wrenched my jacket sleeve out of the muscle man’s grip. “I was supposed to report in to you tomorrow morning, as is.”

“Yes, well,” the Illusive Man lit a cigarette from the dying butt of one in his other hand. “What is life without a little spontaneity?”

“Normal.”

“Nothing about the life I lead is ‘normal’, Shepard. As you know all too well, I’m sure.”

“What I know is that I don’t appreciate being dragged in here—again—like I’m someone who owes you money.” There was a little more irritation in my voice than I wished there would be. Truth is I was in over my head and the Illusive Man was Mr. Deep-End, with his daughter at the center of the whole case.

“Then hopefully you’ll accept my apologies and,” he reached into his drawer and removed an envelope full of bills, “A little gratuity.”

“Aw,” I regarded him with a half-smile. “If you were trying to butter me up, you coulda just bought me a nice steak sandwich.” It was something Kaidan said to me on our first date, I had no idea why it had popped into my head right now. Anything to have Kaidan in the room with me in some way.

“Priming the pump, Shepard. You’re a well of knowledge I intend to treat very delicately. Which is why I’m so alarmed to see your face bruised, your lip split.” He took a hearty drag on his coffin nail, maybe hoping I’d spill in the silence. “Tell me it was my men who did this and I’ll have them punished. I instructed them to bring you to me with the utmost care.”

“Little altercation from earlier,” I lied. “You know us drunk-types.”

“And I thought you’d been abstaining from drink since taking this case.”

“Doesn’t mean the drink doesn’t catch up with you, anyhow.”

He had piercing eyes and they were boring into me now.

“Tell me about my daughter, Shepard.”

“I’d have some photos for you if you’d given me any time to develop them before hauling me in.”

“I have a very good imagination.”

“Your daughter’s slippery.” I was stalling. What did I know about Miranda Lawson after following her for just a few days? I knew I couldn’t mention Jacob Taylor until I had some confirmation from Kaidan about what was going on there. I knew Miranda was hiding something from her father, but I was starting to wonder if I was on the right side of this.

“That’s why I’m paying you a substantial salary, Shepard.” Just the barest hint of impatience had crept into his voice.

“She’s a regular at the Collector Club. Got her own table, her own little clique.” I watched his eyes, “Based on you look on your face, it’s not your car that’s taking her.” I pulled a cigarette from my pocket and a match from my coat. “You want more than that, you need to give me more time.” I lit the cigarette and watched the Illusive Man through the smoke.

“Alright, Shepard.” He snapped his fingers and two of his goons grabbed my shoulders, “You’re going to find out who’s driving that car.”

“You’ve got business with the Collector Club, don’t you?” It was a hunch, and the Illusive Man’s face didn’t betray a thing, except one of his posse glanced for a moment at the model of the city on the desk. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for a socialite like Miranda Lawson to go to the Collector Club, except that she was the daughter of the Illusive Man. Still, it was supposed to be neutral ground, unless it wasn’t…

“Be careful,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You look like you’ve already taken quite the beating tonight. Get home safe, Shepard.”

The two goons spun me around and the men who had crushed into the office behind me slowly parted to allow the goons to haul me out.

I recognized the man in the corner from Kaidan’s photos: it was Jacob Taylor!

++

Took me a long time getting back to my apartment that night. I almost drew my gun when I found the door unlocked, but I could smell that familiar cologne…

“Jesus, Shepard,” Kaidan exclaimed when I came in, gingerly touching the puffy area around my eye where Miranda’s boys had socked me. “You turned on the Ol’ Shepard Charm this time, didn’t you?”

“Got me some information—Ah!” I winced when he pushed a little harder. “How’d you get into my place, anyway? You pick the lock?”

“I, uh,” Kaidan walked to the freezer, wrapped some ice-cubes in one of my grungy dish-towels. “I still have the key you gave me.” I smiled and it hurt my jaw, but I had it back under control by the time Kaidan turned back. It was probably healthiest to assume he held onto my key because he was a good snoop, and wouldn’t give up something like that just because we’d broken up. “What happened to you, anyway?”

“Miranda’s goons caught me tailing her.” I leaned my face into the towel Kaidan placed against my eye, and he lifted one of my hands to press it against my socket. “Got a chance to talk to her. She played it cool, but she seemed rattled about something. When she found out I was working for her father, she got real quiet.”

“You’d figure she’d expect her father to be keeping eyes on her.”

“Maybe she’s just surprised he hired outside help to be his eyes and ears.” Kaidan loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He smoothed a hand over his hair, perfectly coifed despite being under a hat all day. God, he looked gorgeous.

“I’ve been wondering about that, actually. Said he hired me because I don’t go for the ladies. But that can’t be it. Best I can figure, he needs someone outside his organization.”

“How’s that?”

“Cerberus is all built on loyalty—makes sense that if the Illusive Man is hiring me, he thinks the loyalty of his outfit is questionable.”

“Could just be that Miranda would recognize one of his usual goons.”

“Sure, sure,” I watched as Kaidan adjusted his suspenders, the way they pulled tight over his chest. “But he’s got boys that know how to be invisible as well as I do. He’s got cops in his pocket—more people than even Miranda knows about. It makes sense that if he thinks Miranda could turn anyone loyal to ‘the family’, he’d look for outside help. Someone who’s loyal only to the money. Someone who needs it. Someone who’s desperate for a paycheck.”

“You.”

“Yeah,” I swallowed. “Me.”

“Well, if he’s worried about loyalty, I think I might have found his leak.” Kaidan leaned back against my kitchen counter—covered in pots and pans, a few bills, a bowl and a whiskey glass. My apartment was tiny, one room, bedroom and kitchen sort of blended together. “Tailing Jacob Taylor, found him down by the docks. He’s working for the Reapers, Shepard.”

“I saw him in the Illusive Man’s office!”

Kaidan nodded.

“I tailed him for 12 hours. Man barely sleeps, you’d like him.”

“I sleep.”

Kaidan pointed to the mattress against the corner of the room, covered in papers and clothes.

“When was the last time you slept in that?” In truth, it had been more than a few weeks. I usually ended up crashing in the chair, tossing whatever was on it onto the bed. I felt a little embarrassed, especially remembering Kaidan’s apartment, spick and span. His big bed…

“You got me there. So how do you know Taylor is working for the Reapers.”

“I recognize enough of their outfit. Doesn’t seem like he reports to any of the usual group, though. So either he’s high-ranking… in which case Aria would’ve known about him when you talked to her the other night.”

“Or he’s special, for some reason.” I pulled the ice off my face and set it down. “A mole.” Kaidan nodded.

“Question is: who is he really working for and who is he double-crossing?”

“Maybe he’s only loyal to Miranda.”

“So it all comes back to her, what’s she playing at?”

I wiggled my jaw, it was finally starting to feel better.

“Miranda said something about the Collector Club and the balance of power in the city.”

“Maybe she’s involved with whoever owns the place.”

I shook my head, “We’re not going to figure it out without doing some more research. I feel like the Collector Club is at the center of this thing. The Illusive Man bristled when I brought it up.”

“Alright, I’ll start looking into that tomorrow. Mean-time, you should get an actual night’s rest” Kaidan picked up his coat and set his hat on his head. “I should get going.”

“Or you could stay.” It slipped out before I knew what I was doing. I didn’t want to beat around the bush with Kaidan, not anymore. Not again.

“Where would I sleep?” Kaidan asked, voice annoyed, but with a coy note.

“With me.” I hauled myself up and pressed my lips to Kaidan’s. I could taste the lingering whiskey on Kaidan’s tongue, the first drop I’d had in a while, and I fell off the wagon. I put my hand on his face, rough stubble under my fingers, like he hadn’t shaved today—up all night stalking after a lead. It got me hot under the collar, thinking about my man out there on the job.

‘My man’? Where did that come from? I didn’t have time to think about it, because Kaidan backed me against the table, his hands on my hips, half pulling me back, half pulling my shirt out from where it was tucked into my slacks. His kisses were as rough as his chin, and every time I thought he might be pulling me away, I pressed forward.

“Shepard,” he muttered between our lips. I must have looked like a wet puppy when he finally pulled away, because he stopped for a moment and cradled my face in his hand. “I need to know what this is.”

“What do you mean?” I pushed our hips together, my hand covering his on my cheek.

“I want you, Shepard. I’m not going to pretend I don’t want this.” At this, his other hand trailed down my body between my thighs where I could feel he was hard as I was. “If this is a one-night thing, though, I want to know that now. I can live with one last mistake.”

I winced, and not from the gentle pressure he put against my aching face.

“Was it always a mistake?”

“You’re not answering my question.” He backed one step backward.

“Answer mine.” I stepped forward.

“…No. It wasn’t always a mistake.”

“Then tonight’s not, either. I don’t… I don’t want a one night stand with you, Kaidan. I still… I still…” I couldn’t finish, and Kaidan pressed forward, kissing me deep, again, pushing my jacket off my shoulders in a way where he savored the feel of my arms, reaching for him.

We tumbled back towards the bed, his lips on mine, the scent of him all around me. I did love him, that night. I’d always loved him. The idea that no matter how much I had fucked up his life, he might still feel that way about me made me dizzier than any bottle I’d ever drained.

I put that thought out of my head. Concentrated only on the line of soft hair down Kaidan’s chest as he raced to unbutton his shirt, the way his slacks tented, and the hungry look in his eyes.

++

I had memories at Omega, and none of them very good. Most of them not even complete. It was a gaudy, seedy club in all the ways the Collector Club tried to hide. There was a kind of carnal energy in the air and enough dark corners to hide any sin. I knew one or two of those dark corners intimately. The club was like one big black-out: lost time, a forgotten memory. When you left Omega, you left a piece of yourself behind, and it was a piece you probably shouldn’t go back and visit.

It was fitting, then, that the VIP lounge was called ‘After Life’. Black velvet and black leather, lights dim enough to reduce the dancers to naked silhouettes. There was a bouncer outside the After Life door. He held up a hand as I approached.

“Password.”

“Oleg’s Head.”

He narrowed his eyes but stepped aside and opened the door for me. The band was playing something low tempo and dark, the dancers gyrating in time with the music. I didn’t have time for any of it, pointed myself for the raised dais on one end of the room. Aria’s couch.

“Aria,” I walked past her goon-squad without making eye contact, keeping my gaze fixed on the Queen of Omega. If I was going to get the answers I needed, I needed to come in strong. “Glad to see you back in your own environs.”

I felt a gun pressed to my back—one of her goons—but she waved him back.

“Back again, Shepard. It’s dangerous, bothering me like this.”

“Never did get my favor last time.”

“And you think I owe you a favor, still? Please!”

“Never did cash in my favor from the whole ‘Patriarch’ business…” Her main goon, Terry or something, whipped his head to look at her. Aria only grit her teeth and beckoned me to sit down on the sofa next to her.

“I’m a woman of my word,” she cleared her throat and made a sign with her hand. Immediately, the band struck up a brassy, loud song. It was immediately apparent that nobody in the club was going to be able to hear anyone who was more than a few inches away. The goons dispersed, eyes scanning the crowd for anyone who might be listening. “I must admit, I didn’t think this day would come.”

“Trust me, me neither.”

“Who do you need dead, Shepard?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then you’re wasting your favor.” Her eyes narrowed at me. “Is this about that Jacob Taylor fellow again? Please tell me your interest in him isn’t personal. It was pathetic enough watching you heartbroken the first time.”

“Not Jacob Taylor,” I wasn’t going to take her bait. I had to stay in control of this conversation. “The Collector Club.” That seemed to grab her attention, she grinned in a way that reminded me of a shark.

“Shepard, Shepard, Shepard,” she tutted. “Look how far you’ve come, from leaving the force and drinking yourself into a stupor right here in my bar, then trying to drink your way out of it when the man who resigned for you decided he’d had enough of your bullshit. And now here you are knocking on the doors of power. That mentor of yours—what’s his name—would be proud of you. I heard he’s dead.”

“Who owns the Collector Club, Aria?” I managed through grit teeth.

“Why?”

“That’s my business.”

“He has a number of aliases,” Aria eased back into her couch, regarded her club with a queenly demeanor. “Francis Wynn, Donovan Hock, Henry Judge—“

“Henry Judge?” I muttered, so Miranda had been telling the truth.

“That’s right.” She raised an eyebrow. “You know him?”

“Not me, but… he’s a friend of a friend.”

“I sincerely doubt that. The man doesn’t make friends. But his real name, and the name on the lease of the Collector Club, is Henry Lawson.”

“Lawson?”

Aria laughed.

“Nevermind, Shepard, I like this favor. Starting to put any pieces together, yet?”

“He’s Miranda Lawson’s father? She’s adopted.”

“So it would seem.”

++

We met back at Kaidan’s office, he looked more flustered than I was used to seeing him, especially after I told him the information I’d gotten out of Aria.

“I went around to Judge’s place, caught his housekeeper as she was leaving for the night, managed to buy her a coffee and talk to her a little bit about what’s been happening in the Judge household. She told me about this young woman who’s been hanging around. I guess that must be Miranda. Apparently, she tracked down her father a few years ago, and has become more and more involved in his life over time.”

“Trying to reunite with her biological father,” I mused. “I can certainly see why she would want to hide that from the Illusive Man, but the level of cloak and dagger here seems like it’s a little beyond just standard caution.”

“We haven’t even touched on how the Illusive Man came to adopt her in the first place.” Kaidan leaned against his desk, knuckles down.

“Still,” I took one of his arms. He was tense, very tense. “It explains why Miranda was so flustered when I brought up that I was working for her father. She didn’t know which father I was talking about.”

“So she doesn’t know about me, yet, then.”

“You always were a better sleuth than me…” It made me feel proud to say, surprisingly. But it also made a part of me I couldn’t identify yet go cold.

“No one finds a missing person like you, Shepard.” Kaidan pushed himself up off the desk and bumped his shoulder against mine. “Anderson and I always get—got—these infidelity cases. I’ve gotten pretty used to moving in the shadows. Except you caught me that one night.”

“I’m glad I did,” I smiled. Kaidan smiled back at me.

“Me too.”

I leaned in and so did he, but just before our lips could touch, he flinched back.

“We’re working, we shouldn’t.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“So every night, she gets out of the house, takes her limo to god-knows-where, pays off the driver for the night, and gets in another car sent to her by Lawson. Takes her to the Collector Club.”

“I think it’s time we confront Jacob Taylor.”

++

Kaidan had already tailed Jacob to what he suspected was his apartment, so after the sun went down we drove over.

“Now I guess we wait,” Kaidan concluded, turning the car off. We were quiet for a long time, the car slowly growing colder in the chill of the night.

“On a stakeout with you,” I finally broke the silence, “I missed this.”

Kaidan turned to look at me, I could just see his eyes in the headlights of a passing car.

“Just… sitting here in silence, waiting for some thug to show his face? You miss that?”

“Yeah.” I missed Kaidan however I could get him but there was something about being on a job with him that always made me feel like I was right where I was supposed to be. Something safe about it. I couldn’t put it that way to Kaidan, though, not with how rocky things still were between us. I still wasn’t sure if the other night was a one-time affair… “I never feel like I need to say anything when you’re around. It’s a comfortable silence.”

“Not like with Anderson,” Kaidan chuckled, but didn’t contradict me. “Always had a story to tell when we were on a stakeout. I swear we almost missed our mark once because he was so into this story he was telling.”

“Yeah, Anderson.”

I shivered, wished I’d worn my trench coat. The mood in the car fell, and we sat in silence for a few minutes.

“He was proud of you, even at the end,” Kaidan said softly. “He never lost faith in you.”

“Thank you.”

Kaidan sighed.

“I think part of me always believed in you, too.”

“Th-thank you.” I couldn’t meet Kaidan’s gaze. “I’m pretty sure the two of you had more faith in me than I had in myself.” I couldn’t hold it in anymore, especially when Kaidan’s hand reached across and took mine. “I lost everything when I lost you, Kaidan—“

“Wait!” Kaidan’s hand slipped from mine and he pointed out the windshield. There was Jacob Taylor walking up the sidewalk toward his apartment steps. He was arm in arm with Miranda Lawson.

“Should we—“ But I didn’t get to finish my thought before two shady men appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. They wrenched Jacob away from Miranda, one man holding her back and the other socking Jacob across the jaw and kicking him to the ground. Miranda screamed.

Kaidan was halfway out of the car before I had reached for the door handle. Then we were running up the sidewalk, Kaidan heading for Miranda, me for the man assaulting Jacob.

The man was kneeling over Jacob’s prone form, pummeling him. I got a running start and tackled him off. But the man was too quick for me, quickly reversing the situation and pummeling me instead. Kaidan had the other guy from behind, pulling his jacket up over his head before kneeing him in the sternum.

A moment later Kaidan appeared above me, hauling the man off and pitching him to the curb. He reached down to take my hand and pull me up, there was a snarl on his face, and I hadn’t seen Kaidan in a fight in a long time. I shouldn’t have been thinking like that in the middle of a fight, myself, but I couldn’t help it. I managed to grab Kaidan by the shoulders, pull him to one side just as a man came barreling in to tackle him down.

“Enough!” Miranda shouted. She was on one knee above where Jacob was slowly sitting up, she had an elegant revolver pointed in our direction. The two goons backed away slowly and Miranda raised her pistol. One shook the dust off his jacket, growling at Miranda as he got in his car. They took off without another word.

By the time I turned back to Miranda, the revolver had disappeared and she was helping Jacob sit up, wiping at his bloody nose with a handkerchief.

“What the hell was that about?” Kaidan demanded, inspecting the scuffs on his palms, his swelling knuckles.

“Were you tailing me again, Shepard?” Miranda snarled at me. Her handkerchief was already turning red, but Jacob was trying to wave her back, wincing as he stood up. It was the first good look I’d gotten at Jacob, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the muscle evident even under blood stained shirt. I got the feeling that if he hadn’t been jumped, Jacob would’ve been more than capable of fighting off the two assailants.

“Here for him, actually,” I nodded to Jacob, who was reeling on his feet. “And good timing, too.”

“Who were those men?” Kaidan asked

“I didn’t recognize them,” Miranda daubed at Jacob’s nose. “I don’t think they’re my father’s men.”

“But which father?” I asked. That made her sit bolt upright. She sneered.

“Neither.”

“Seems a pretty convenient little assault, maybe your cover’s blown, Miranda.”

“What ‘cover’? You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then it’s time to start talking,” Kaidan said, taking a step forward. “Jacob, who do you work for?”

“The Reapers?” I supplied, “Cerberus?”

“I work for Miranda!” He sputtered, white teeth etched in red blood.

“I’m supposed to report back to the Illusive Man any day now, and I have  a feeling if he knew some of the places I’ve seen you, he’d have a thing or two to say. Now listen, I’ve kept a lot of this under wraps because I don’t like telling a story in pieces.” I drew a cigarette from my jacket pocket and lit it with a  match. Jacob stared daggers at me. “So let’s start simple. It was you I was chasing out of the Collector Club the other night wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he grunted.

“Why’d you run?”

“You were talking to Aria about me. Thought my cover was blown. Didn’t know that you were working for the Illusive Man, but anybody who found out I was playing both sides was bound to end up in the river, like your friend.”

“Did he figure you out? Did you kill him?”

“No!” Miranda answered for him, “He found out Henry Judge—“

“—your father,” Kaidan interjected. Miranda grimaced, the expression unfamiliar to her normally placid face.

“Henry Lawson was getting ready to sell the Collector Club to the Reapers. He asked Lawson about it. That was it for him.”

“We were supposed to be tailing you,” Kaidan said. “Suddenly, his long lost daughter comes out of nowhere. Needs to know who she really is, what she might be hiding. Anderson figured out something bigger was going on.”

“But why is the Collector Club so important? Reapers want it, Cerberus wants it. It’s always been neutral ground.”

“Not as profitable to be neutral, anymore.” Miranda stood up, drawing her fur around her shoulders against the chill of the mist that had begun to creep down the street.

“The model of the city in the Illusive Man’s office,” I pressed. “He’s got plans for the Collector Club, too. Does he know the Henry Lawson’s been playing him against the Reapers?”

“My father wants the Collector Club because of what’s in the basement.” Miranda’s eyes were flashing. “There’s pneumatic tubes connecting it to practically everywhere in the city. Untraceable, almost instantaneous orders delivered anywhere in the city.”

“But how could the Illusive Man take over the Collector Club? If Lawson is selling it to the Reapers…”

Miranda rolled her eyes.

“The Reapers may have a wider grasp, but they don’t have a tighter hold. My father has a sterling reputation with half the city’s officials and dirt on the other half. Once he has his way, they’ll seize the whole neighborhood under eminent domain—turn the Collector Club into a public works installation, giving Cerberus full access to a city-wide communication system right under the city’s nose.”

“And what’s your part in this?” Kaidan growled.

“I don’t have a part in it!” She hissed, taking Jacob’s arm. “I… I have a sister. Oriana Lawson. She still lives with… with that monster, Henry Lawson. I needed to get close enough where I could get to her, take her with me when Jacob and I leave the city.”

“You’re trying to rescue your sister?” Kaidan asked, incredulous. Miranda nodded.

“And thanks to you interfering, Shepard,” she spat my name, “I’ve had to move up my time-table.” The gun appeared in her hand again. “Now, get out of here.”

I knew she wouldn’t fire, and probably so did Kaidan, but we were good enough detectives to know it was time to leave already.

++

Kaidan’s apartment was as spotless as his desk. I felt out of place, knowing that this or that tidy corner used to be stacked with my clothes or my towel. The sink was free of the clutter I used to leave in it when I was in this apartment often.

Kaidan sighed, hung his hat and jacket on the coat rack, slipped off his shoes, and made for the kitchen table. He looked up at me as he tugged the knot out of his tie.

“Well, you coming in?” I hadn’t left the mat inside the door since stepping in.

“Oh, yeah,” I hung my hat next to Kaidan’s. Hung my coat next to Kaidan’s. Like we used to, our hats always side by side when they weren’t on our heads.

“You’ve got that look in your eye,” Kaidan walked into the kitchen and started making some coffee. “You thinking about the case?”

“Hm? No. Just thinking about… the mess I used to make of this place.”

Kaidan chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that always made me weak.

“You want any coffee?”

The whole apartment smelled like Kaidan, smelled like nights spent lying awake together, mornings making breakfast for each other.

“Nah, I should, erm. Someone told me I should sleep more.” I smiled and Kaidan smiled back. He took the pot off the stove top and switched it off.

“Me too, I guess.”

I was still walking around the house like a wraith through an old life. It was odd to be in such a familiar place and yet feel so out of place. I had wandered over to the bedroom.

The bed was well made. I couldn’t tell which was my favorite pillow anymore.

Kaidan touch my shoulders, hugged me back into his body. When I turned around, he was wearing only his slacks, undershirt, and suspenders.

“You staying the night?” It was barely a whisper.

“C-can I?”

“Yeah,” he un-knotted my tie and started unbuttoning my shirt. “You can.” I ran my hands up his bare arms to the shoulder, then let my fingers run down the front of his body along his suspenders. He slid my shirt off and leaned into me. I tipped my head and met him in a kiss. It was sweet, without the heat of need of the last time we were together, and for a moment, it felt like we had never been apart. “Come sit on the bed with me.”

He switched off the light and led me to the bed. When I sat, I sank into that familiar, lumpy divot I remembered. Kaidan laid back on the bedspread and for a moment I just watched him in the slanting light of the window. He pulled me down, gently, and I scooted in closer till I could lay my head on his chest.

To feel him breathing again, to hear his heartbeat…

“Who were those men tonight, d’you think?” He asked sleepily. “Jacob didn’t seem to know them. And if either side had figured him out, he’d get a lot worse than a two-man brute squad.”

“Tell me why we called it off, Kaidan.” I couldn’t pay attention to anything he was saying, the feel of his body beneath me taking all my attention, the crack in the ceiling above the bed driving back every splinter of nostalgia.

“You know why we called it off,” he answered after a long moment.

“I do, yeah. But I think I need to hear you say it.”

“…we broke up because you started looking for meaning in life at the bottom of a bottle.” He said it so softly. “I told you I’d follow you anywhere, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t hold you in my arms as you drank yourself to death. I did follow you, Shepard. When you needed it most, I was there. So was Anderson. But you just pushed and pushed.”

“Yeah, I did.” I took a deep breath. “I’m not pushing anymore.”

“Can you even promise me you wouldn’t go back to that dark place again?” Kaidan sighed heavily, he was talking to himself as much to me. “Could I even believe you if you promised me that?”

“I’ll never touch another drop,” I rushed to say. “If that’s what it takes to have you back… to be back in your life.”

“Dammit, it’s not just that.” But he held me closer. “You were scared of us and you didn’t want to admit it. You were scared of having someone important in your life. You’re such a damn loner, Shepard.”

“You’re right, I was scared.” I couldn’t keep the emotion out of my voice. “Now I’m just scared I’m going to have to live without you.”

The sounds of the street outside filled the silence. The city made sense at night, corridors of light and dark. I thought he had fallen asleep by the time Kaidan finally answered.

“You always had me,” he whispered “You just have to stay.”

“I’m staying.”

We fell asleep like that, the sounds of the street forgotten, my ear against Kaidan’s heartbeat, his soft breaths through my hair.

In the morning, there was a note slid under the door.

“Mr. Alenko, it’s time we meet to discuss our business. Meet me tonight at the Collector Club.

-          Henry Judge.”

++

With all the lights off, the Collector Club had a sepulchral air to it. Closed tonight, the tall curtains seemed more like stone than like cloth as they hung in the darkness. The glittering chandeliers, without any light to catch in their multi-faceted hanging baubles, looked like so many glass cobwebs hanging about the vaulted ceiling. The only light came from the high window, the office window that overlooked the dining floor.

Kaidan and I made our way up the stairs and knocked at the door. She only opened the door a crack, but it was enough to see that  the woman who answered looked terrified, and no more than sixteen. She had Miranda’s dark hair and dark eyes, they could have been twins, but I had never seen Miranda look so afraid.

“I’m here to see Mr. Judge,” Kaidan said.

“Y-you were supposed to be alone.” Her voice squeaked and her wide, dark eyes turned to me.

“My business partner,” Kaidan answered, “Stepping in for the partner I lost.”

“Let them in, Oriana,” Came a dark voice from inside. She stepped out of the way and we walked into the room. It was an opulent office, the thick curtain across the window actually open. The carpet was the same red plush as in the restaurant, but lit by only a desk lamp, it looked almost black. There was a huge taxidermy eagle spreading its wings behind the desk chair, it cast a sinister shadow onto the ceiling. Henry Judge stood up from his chair and came around to the front of the desk. “Mr. Alenko, thank you for agreeing to meet me here. I was sorry to hear about your partner, Mr. Anderson, was it?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Won’t you introduce me to your new partner?”

“This is Shepard,” Kaidan answered curtly.

“Excellent,” he reached out and shook my hand, his palms were cold. During all this, Oriana had floated over near the window, her posture collapsing in on itself. “Won’t you both sit down?” He gestured to two leather wingbacks under the shadow of the eagle.

“We’d prefer to stand.” Kaidan removed photographs from his jacket pocket and handed them to Henry Judge. “I’ve followed Miranda Lawson for the past few days, everywhere she’s been is in those photos—“

Judge threw the pictures onto the desk without looking at them.

“Come now, Mr. Alenko. You’ve realized she’s my daughter, by now. No need to play coy.” He put his hands behind his back and paced over to the window where Oriana was cowering. “When she re-appeared in my life last year, it was the happiest I’d been in years. My daughter, fierce, determined, intelligent,” he seemed to sneer at Oriana. “Fearless. In my life once again. We agreed the Illusive Man could never know that we’d been reunited—not until Miranda was firmly established in my business. And she is. Her mind is really something singular. Thanks to her, I’ve restructured my whole business, no more cloak and dagger, but operating in the daylight, paying off the right people and ensuring my work appeared entirely above board.”

“She does seem intelligent,” Kaidan said, watching the man with that intense gaze of his.

“The last thing, then, was to sell off the club. It was her idea to sell it to the Reapers for a tidy profit.”

A cold feeling rushed down my spine.

“Her idea, was it?”

“Yes.” Henry Judge gave a shark-like smile. “I only needed to know that she was faithful to me, and me alone. Now, thanks to you, I know my daughter keeps nothing from me.”

Suddenly, down in the dark mausoleum of the Collector Club: a light. Fire crawled up one of the club’s heavy curtains, fanned across the vaulted ceiling. Oriana shrieked. Judge turned and let out a gasp. I could just make out the shape of a man running through the restaurant, splashing a canister of gasoline across the carpet: it was Jacob Taylor.

The door flew open, and there was Miranda Lawson, brandishing her revolver. She stepped into the room and smiled at Henry Judge, who looked aghast.

“Shepard,” she said, “Seems you’re always on the scene. I wonder if it’s skill or luck?”

Judge moved fast. Grabbed Oriana by the arm, a pistol in his hand suddenly, the blunt barrel pressed into her temple, her body between him and Miranda’s pistol. Oriana screamed and froze.

“Ori!” Miranda cried.

“Miranda!” Judge hissed. “What’re you doing?”

“Taking my sister, father.”

“I promised you my empire and you betray me!” He screamed, his face turning red.

“Don’t be a fool,” she circled around her eye fixed on Judge as his was fixed on her. “I wanted your empire, and I’m taking it.”

“One more step and you’ll be cleaning your sister out of the carpet of your new office.”

Kaidan had been inching closer to Judge, trying to get behind him, when he seemed to fumble his gun, Kaidan leapt forward.

A shot rang out.

Kaidan slumped to the floor.

“Kaidan!” The cry ripped out of me before I could stop it. I made for Kaidan’s prone form, but Judge leveled his gun at me.

“Everyone stay back, nobody move!” He backed up until his back was against the window. The Collector Club was ablaze on the other side of the window, the chandeliers crashing into the flaming carpet. The curtains had turned into walls of fire. “Put your gun down, Miranda. So help me I am not going to ask you twice.” He pointed the gun back at Ori’s head.

Miranda dropped her pistol, the slightest hint of worry creeping into her icy expression. She kicked the gun away.

Kaidan groaned on the floor.

“There’s no exit strategy here, Judge.” My voice was a snarl, though my hands were raised like Miranda’s. All I could think about was getting to Kaidan, I couldn’t even tell how badly he was bleeding with the blood red carpet.

“Shut up! Let me think!”

He pressed the barrel of the gun to Oriana’s head and she shrieked at the burn on her skin, wriggled just enough to escape his grip.

Miranda shot forward. There was a shot that flew into the ceiling. She rushed into Judge, shoulder down. With a shatter of glass, Henry Judge screamed as he crashed through the window and down into the flaming club. There was a sickening thud, and then only the sound of the flames devouring the building.

I ran forward and rolled Kaidan over, he needed medical attention, and quick. Miranda spared a moment to check on Oriana before rushing to collect her pistol again, she leveled it at me.

“So much for saving your sister!” I spat.

“I am saving my sister!” Miranda cried, the blast of heat through the broken window making both of us sweat. “When this place burns to the ground, I take over Henry Lawson’s company and I keep my father from getting his hands on the Collector Club. I get out of this life of crime for good, and I take my sister with me.”

“You really think the Illusive Man will let you escape, knowing you double-crossed him?”

“He’ll never know. Jacob Taylor. Working for the Reapers. He destroyed the club.”

“Someone else to take the heat for you from both sides. Except for me. I know what really happened.”

“Now you get the picture,” she shouted over the rippling blaze. She eyed me down the barrel.

“Miranda, please don’t!” Oriana still pressed a palm to the burn against her temple, but pulled at Miranda’s arm with the other hand. “No more killing! Please, Miranda, we need to leave!” Miranda looked torn for a moment. There was a crash as the ceiling above the restaurant collapsed.

“Goodbye, Shepard.” She turned on her heel, pulling Oriana behind her. I immediately lifted Kaidan to his feet.

“Kaidan, can you hear me? Kaidan!” He groaned, but seemed to find his feet. “We’re getting you out of here, stay with me, keep your hand pressed there—“ he winced. “Press hard.”

The stairs were beginning to burn as I towed Kaidan downstairs and towards the back exit. We emerged onto the street, singed and smoking, and Kaidan collapsed.

++

I got Kaidan to the hospital in time. Barely, the doctors said.

I waited by his bedside every day. The nurses got used to me.

A few days later, a man in a prim pin-stripe suit and grey hat showed up at the hospital room and I could tell from the lump under his arm he was carrying. I knew what it meant, it was time to make my final report to the Illusive Man.

++

“She set fire to the club, then she took her sister and left,” I finished my story as the Illusive Man watched me from between steepled fingers. He was quiet for a long moment.

“My daughter,” he cleared his throat, “Has been hustling Henry Judge for a year to take over his empire. And you’re saying she sabotaged me in the process.”

I shrugged, removed the cigarette from between my lips.

“I’m not saying anything other than what happened, than what she said. You’re paying me to do a job. I did the job.”

“You certainly did, Shepard. You certainly did.” He eased back into his chair. “My daughter, right under my nose… good for her.” He snapped his fingers and one of his goons brought him a cigarette. Come to think of it, it was the first time I’d seen him without one. “I’m sad to see her go.”

“You want us to track her down, boss?” One of the men leaning against a bookcase asked.

“Hm? Oh. No. She’ll make herself known at some point. I’m proud of her. Losing the Collector Club is a major blow, there’s no way around that. But it’s as much a blow for the Reapers. Can hardly blame her. I stirred the pot, after all.”

“So much for not mixing your business and your family life.” I tried to make the words burn, but the Illusive Man didn’t take it.

“We’re both men who like things in ordered categories, aren’t we, Shepard? It does grieve me on some level that my daughter decided to get into the family business. But we all must learn to appreciate the space between spaces, mustn’t we? You know the city’s not so simple as having ‘good’ people and ‘bad’ people—you of all people. What Miranda did hurt me, but I admire her tenacity, and I dare say you admire her motives.”

“I think there are people who are truly, just good. And I know I’m not one of them, but I believe they exist.”

“A romantic, eh Shepard?”

“I suppose so.”

“Looks like I chose the right man for the job, then!” He crowed.

“I’m not an idiot,” I said, finally. “I know why it was me you hired and not someone else. Shepard the drunk, you knew Miranda would catch me tailing her. Knew it’d speed up her plans. You wanted to rattle her, force her hand. You used me.”

The Illusive Man smiled broadly

“How long before you figured that out?”

“I suppose part of me knew from the start.”

“And I certainly got my money’s worth out of you Shepard. Didn’t expect you to see it through all the way to the end like this, though. Should I attribute that to your sudden sobriety? Or perhaps a certain partnership?” I didn’t answer and the Illusive Man chuckled. “I’m not Henry Lawson, Shepard. Here, I have your fee, as promised. With a little something extra.”

Being paid to be a tool, but my pride wasn’t too great to not accept the money.

++

I paid my tab at the Normandy.

Paying my tab at Omega turned out to be a more involved activity. Mr. Gorgeous came to meet me at the bar and led me over into After Life and up to Aria’s couch.

 “Shepard,” Aria gestured for me to sit and had Mr. Gorgeous bring me a cigarette and a light. “Benny tells me you paid off your entire tab. Does this mean I shouldn’t expect your sorry ass at my bar anymore?”

“Turning over a new leaf. Got a new reason. And a new business partner. Time I start acting like I’m here to stay.”

“Don’t you have something you want to say to me, Shepard.” Her eyes bored into me.

“Love what you’ve done with your hair?”

“’Thank you, Aria’” she mocked.

“I thought we were square-up on the favors. You gave me information, I helped you out with the—“

“Not the information, Shepard.” She shifted in her seat, her posture still a practiced disinterest. “Who do you think attacked Jacob Taylor that night outside his apartment.”

“I had been wondering about that. Your boys?”

She nodded firmly.

“Your subtle approach wasn’t getting you anywhere, so I thought I’d help you out, speed the process along a little bit. Scare Miranda into talking. Based on the smoldering crater where the Collector Club used to be, looks like it worked.”

“And lucky for you, all the former clientele are looking for a new club.”

“And I’ve been able to raise my protection rates without a peep out of any of my shop owners.”

“You’re all heart.”

“Let the Reapers and Cerberus eat each other alive. I’ll be here.” With that, I stood up and headed for the door, but Aria called back to me, “Shepard, you owe me one, now.”

++

I watched the painter carefully paint in my name on the glass of the door:

ALLIANCE PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS KAIDAN ALENKO * JOHN SHEPARD

I never thought I would see my name back on that door, side by side with Kaidan. We’d gone together to Anderson’s grave, left a wreath. Part of me still couldn’t believe he was gone, that my name would be replacing his on the door of the business we all started together. But it was hard for me to believe a lot of things, these days. Kaidan was out of the hospital and back in my arms.

One day, a sum of money had arrived by ‘special courier’: it was the sum Anderson and Kaidan had agreed upon for tailing Miranda.

“You’ve gotta respect someone who pays for own investigation.” Kaidan chuckled, easing himself to sit on the edge of my desk. He picked up a model plane and turned it over in his hands.

“She’s a consummate business woman, that’s for sure.”

“We were lucky to get out of there alive.” He set the plane down, “You know, I don’t think I thanked you in the hospital for getting me out of there.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you there to bleed out! Or burn to death, or—“

Kaidan touched my lips.

“Just let me say ‘thank you.’”

I leaned in and kissed him and the painter gave us a scandalized look.

“I’m always going to be there for you.”

“I know.” I leaned my head on Kaidan’s shoulder.

“You make me brave, Kaidan. I want you to know that… that it’s different this time.”

“I believe you. I’ve always believed in you. I’m glad you found your way back to me.”

Outside the window, rain had begun to fall on my city. Kaidan winced as he stood up to look through the blinds. I put my arms around him, leaning my chin on his shoulder. I hated the rain, the way it muddied everything up, the light and the dark all blurring together. It was a beautiful city, it was a mean city, and it was hard to tell the two apart in the rain.

Kaidan always preferred the rain to the heartbeat of the city: the rattle of cars and clamor of crowds and the hum of the electricity. When I closed my eyes, I could hear Kaidan’s heartbeat. That was all I needed in this city.

There’s not much else to tell than that.